


Who Wants To Live Forever (I Do)

by Lyowyn



Series: Princes of the Universe [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drunkenness, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Queen References, Quite a lot of Queen references, The sequel you never knew you needed, cars as characters, teenage antichrist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-07 08:44:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19205902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyowyn/pseuds/Lyowyn
Summary: Crowley's misdeeds (or rather, good deeds) finally catch up to him, and Hell takes its revenge for the whole Armageddon debacle. It all backfires horribly, and Aziraphale and Crowley enlist the help of a teenage, former Antichrist to get a bit of their own back. That goes about as well as might be expected.





	1. Chapter 1

To say that Aziraphale was a bit uncomfortable as he passed the uniformed guard and made his way back to the holding cells was an understatement akin to saying that The Beatles had a few fans, the Titanic and the Hindenburg might have had one or two engineering oversights, or that his friend in the cell at the end looked a bit under the weather.

“Blighted Lucifer, Crowley,” Aziraphale exclaimed as he stepped toward the bars. As Crowley struggled to his feet and stumbled to the front of the cell, Aziraphale could smell the stench of alcohol coming off him in waves. “Would you sober up already? I don’t have time for this nonsense. You know that I have to go to Croyden to look at those Lovecraft first editions in the morning.”

“Can’t,” Crowley hissed, grabbing his head. His eyes were a murky scarlet under half closed lids.

Aziraphale sighed. “Please, Crowley, just sober up so that we can get out of here. I don't understand why you couldn't just handle this yourself.”

“Can’t," he rasped again. "They cut me off."

“And too right they were. How much have you had?”

Crowley strained to regain enough coherent thought to puzzle out what the angel meant. Then he shook his head. “B'low.” His speech was slurring, and he said it again, concentrating on the word, “ _Below._ They cut me off, angel.  Why d'you think I needed t'call you in the firs' place? I can’t sober up, because I _can’t_. Can’t do an'thing.”

Aziraphale's golden brows furrowed, and his forehead wrinkled as he frowned. “Have you tried a blessing?” he asked after a moment.

Crowley scowled at him. “Jus' get me out'f here,” he hissed.

“Yes, yes, alright,” Aziraphale glanced around at the other occupants of the cell for a moment. “I just have some paperwork to fill out.”

Crowley considered arguing the idiocy of that statement, but decided that it wasn’t worth the headache. There was just no point in arguing over the inanity of bureaucracy with an angel, so he returned to his seat.

The pile of rags next to him on the bench made a little mewling sound and shuffled a bit. Crowley assumed that there was some form of humanity bundled under the folds of the dirty mackintosh, but he had no desire to catch a glimpse of it. He turned away from the bundle and caught the eye of the tarted-up male prostitute sitting on the bench at the other end of the cell. The man leered at him from behind glittering eye makeup, and Crowley made a move to push his sunglasses up. Of course, they weren’t there; his precious shield had been confiscated during processing. He diverted the motion and brushed back his hair instead. Judging by the expression on the prostitute’s face, this action had been interpreted as flirting. Crowley gave him his best scowl and pulled his legs up to his chest, leaning against the cold stone wall to wait for the angel.

It seemed an eternity before Aziraphale returned, accompanied by a burly guard carrying a plastic tote box containing Crowley’s personal effects. He unlocked the cell and motioned for Crowley to step out. He wasted no time in snatching up his sunglasses and slipping them on, and then he donned his leather jacket and hid the remaining items away in the pockets. He did all of this with a practiced efficiency that might have seemed graceful if not for his current state of drunken stupor.

He leaned heavily against Aziraphale as they made their way ungainly down the hall, past the reception desk, through the front door, and out into the rainy fog-cloaked night.

Crowley had no idea where he'd left his car, and imagined he'd be trolling around the seedier parts of London tomorrow asking random pedestrians if they'd seen a classic 1926 Bentley lurking around anywhere. He expected Aziraphale to miracle up a cab for them, but the angel stood there for a moment, staring at a bright red Bugatti Veyron parked at the curb. Despite the fact that it was right in front of them, and looked about as out of place as a thoroughbred racehorse at a soapbox derby, Crowley's eyes had somehow skated right past it before.

"I suppose this must be us," Aziraphale said uncertainly.

"'S a bi' flash for you, in'it, angel?"

"Yes, well it was a rather elderly Citroen when I went inside."

"Righ', well, this is better then. Bes' not to question our good forshun," Crowley said, and reached for the door handle.

Aziraphale pulled him back at the same time the door opened, and a golden-haired teenager smiled up at him from the driver’s seat.

"I got bored, I didn't think anyone would mind the upgrade," Adam Young said. "I thought we needed something with a little more 'go' for the getaway car, after we busted your boyfriend out of the pokey."

Crowley whirled on the angel. “Wha’s he doin' here?” he demanded.

Aziraphale looked embarrassed. “Well, you see... I haven't a driver’s license, and, well… you called, and… I couldn’t think of anyone else to ask, and… Adam was in London anyway, so… you really must admit that things found a way of working themselves out.”

Crowley scowled at Aziraphale and turned back to Adam. “Get out'f my seat.”

“Oh, no,” Adam said, grinning a perfect row of teeth. “I don’t trust your driving under the best circumstances. There’s no way I’m letting you behind the wheel when you’re still half in the bucket.”

Crowley wanted to say that Bugatti Veyron’s didn’t have back seats. That they did not, in fact, make cars that travel in excess of two hundred and fifty miles per hour with enough room to do the grocery run or drop the children off at nursery school. That the sort of people who drove Bugatti Veyrons neither had children nor purchased their own groceries. That the only reason there was even a passenger seat was so that they could fill it with some leggy, blonde bird in the adverts and still maintain the overall look of a _car_ and not some type of rocket ship. He really considered voicing all of these quite reasonable objections, but he knew that, in his current state, his point would just get garbled past decipherability in the translation from his brain to his mouth. So instead, he just climbed into the spacious back seat, curled up on his side, and began to snore.

It was a startlingly human sound.

Aziraphale glanced at him doubtfully and looked to Adam. “I don’t suppose you could have a word with your father? I hate to see him like this, poor thing. Stripped of his powers, you know, he’s really no better than a mortal- worse maybe, as he’s not accustomed to living this way.”

“My father and I only manage to maintain a civil relationship by not talking about… business.”

 _Adam had been talking about his_ dark _father, but this statement could be held true for Mr. Young as well. Perhaps the only thing running hell and cost accountancy had in common was Adam Young's taciturn disinterest._

“You two are going to have to figure this one out on your own; I’m just the chauffer.”

Aziraphale glanced into the back seat again and felt his heart sink.

“Where are we going, anyway?” Adam asked.

“We might as well bring him back to my place,” Aziraphale said. He didn’t think it would be good for Crowley to be alone when he woke, and Aziraphale had a few questions he wanted answered.

Adam didn’t so much turn the car around as rearrange the roads to lead to Soho.

_Mr. Young had spent a little over an hour teaching Adam to drive. It had been one of the most terrifying hours of his life. After that, he had declared that Adam pretty much had the hang of things, and, provided that he never again drove with Mr. Young in the car, he could handle it from there on out._

Needless to say, he drove like the proverbial bat out of hell. When they arrived at Aziraphale's bookshop, a great deal faster than he would have preferred, the angel wasn't sure that he might not have rather had Crowley behind the wheel after all.

           

 

             


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley awoke with a pounding head, a taste in his mouth like he'd been sucking on the rancid entrails of a dead hedgehog, and no memory of how he'd gotten from the car to Aziraphale's bed. In fact, all of last night was pretty much a blur.

"Oh good, you're awake," Aziraphale greeted him cheerily.

Crowley just squinted at him.

"I was beginning to worry a bit. After we got you up the stairs, you just sort of mumbled something about bureaucracy and paperwork and passed out."

Crowley wasn't listening to him. Something was happening in his mouth. It started with a sort of watery feeling, continued on to a burning sensation at the back of his throat, and ended with yesterday's half-digested steak and kidney pie all over the bed covers.

"Oh, dear." Aziraphale's eyes went wide, and he was so shocked that he just sat there and stared for a long moment before he had the presence of mind to miracle the mess away.

Crowley clenched at his stomach and groaned. "That's vile. I think this is what a hangover feels like."

"Well, I should say," Aziraphale uttered in a shocked little voice. "Do you want an aspirin?"

Crowley scowled at him. "Just make it go away."

"I'm not sure that's really an entirely ethical use of my-"

"NOW," Crowley shouted, and really wished that he hadn't when it sent a spike of pain through his skull like a lobotomy pick.

Aziraphale's face melted into a look of concern and he pursed his lips. "Oh, all right, then," he said and snapped his fingers.

Crowley sighed in relief as a general feeling of warmth and well being permeated its way through the malaise of wretchedness. "Much better, thank you," Crowley said, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Whatever else Aziraphale had done to improve his situation, the taste was still there.

"Good," Aziraphale said. "Now, are you going to explain what the _bloody Hell_ is going on?"

"Bloody Hell is right. Hastur and Beelzebub finally found a way to get their revenge for that whole business with the Holy Water. Since I'm not working for Hell anymore, I'm not _technically_ a demon." Crowley snapped his fingers "No demon, no demonic powers. It just took this long for the paperwork to go through. Knowing Hell, they probably put a rush on it. As of last night, I'm a completely mundane human." He rubbed at the corner of one slitted, reptilian eye. "Well… _humanish."_

Aziraphale looked stricken. "But they can't do that."

"Apparently they can."

"But, Crowley, if you're human, then that means you're mortal. You'll _die_. You can't die. You can't leave me here all alone."

Crowley mustered up a weak smile. "Not sure that there's anything we can do about it, angel."

"Of course there is. We just won't stand for it."

"What're you going to do? March down to Lucifer and tell him, _'Look, I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but would you mind reinstating that traitor Crowley's demonic powers? Only, I've kind of gotten used to having him around, and I'd be terribly lonely if he died of an aneurysm or got hit by a bus_."

"I just might."

Crowley snorted and flopped back onto the bed. "Good luck with that. Let me know how it goes."

-*-

Aziraphale didn't march into Hell. He did, however, walk purposefully down the steps and through the back door of his bookshop.

The Former Adversary, Destroyer of Plans, Occasional Guest of the Bottomless Pit, Great Menace that is called Adam, Prince of Lower Tadfield, Master of Dog, Spawn of Satan (and a chartered accountant), and Lord of The Apocalypse That Should Have Been slept on the couch in Aziraphale's back room, snoring loudly.

Aziraphale dropped a copy of _Mrs. Beeton's Book of Household Management_ on his chest.

Adam let out a startled grunt and sat upright in a rush. "I'm awake. I'm awake." He looked around in bleary-eyed confusion. "Wait. What?"

"Wake up. You have work to do."

"I do?"

"You do," Aziraphale confirmed. "Crowley's demonic powers have been revoked, and you're going to fix it."

Adam scratched the back of his neck. "Well, I'm not sure I can do _that_."

"Then, find someone who can." Aziraphale walked over to the door. And, don't let him leave this building until I get back."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to pick up a copy of _The Necronomicon._ "

"Will that help?"

"No," Aziraphale admitted, flushing a bit, "but it's a first edition."

-*-

Adam had been to Hell a few times over the years. It was always arranged so that his parents thought that he was on a school trip, or had suddenly been invited to go caravanning with a friend that they'd never met. Somehow, they were perfectly okay with letting Adam tour the countryside with a perfect stranger in a hundred square foot tin can. Adam was always a bit relieved when the caravanning trips just turned out to be another sojourn into Hell. The tortured screams of billions of souls had to be better than _that_.

After Adam's repudiation, Lucifer Morningstar had been quite keen to make up for his absence in the life of his only son, but it was simply too little, too late, for Adam. He'd tried to be polite, but there was only so much sulfur and brimstone a person could take.

He hadn't exactly made any friends down in the pits, what with the whole not starting the apocalypse thing, and there was no way in Hell that he was going to ask his _dark_ father for anything.

He flipped idly through the book on his lap as he tried to come up with a plan. The entry in the index labeled 'Angels on horseback,' caught his interest, but it just turned out to be scallops wrapped in bacon. Actually, it sounded rather good, and in lieu of any better ideas, Adam decided to go upstairs and see what he could find to make for breakfast.

Ten minutes later, he'd opened every single one of Aziraphale's cupboards and found cookbooks, tea, cookbooks, biscuits, and more cookbooks. There wasn't a single item of actual food, nor could he find anything to cook it with if there had been.

Wondering what on earth anyone would need so many cookbooks for if they never actually _cooked_ anything, Adam munched on one of the biscuits as he wandered around the small flat, opening closet doors, also filled with books, until he found the bedroom.

"Look, I'm not s'posed to let you go anywhere, but I can't live off clouds and air, or whatever angels eat, and I'm guessing you can't anymore either, so do you want to go get some breakfast?"

"Sushi," Crowley said, getting to his feet.

"For breakfast?"

"No, that's what angels eat, mostly, or at least this one does." Crowley pulled on his boots. "He did almost get beheaded over some crepes one time, as well."

"Crepes sound good," Adam said.

"I've been reliably informed that you can't get decent crepes in England," Crowley said. "Where's the angel gone, anyway."

"Went to get a Necronomicon."

"Is that meant to help?" Crowley asked.

Adam shook his head. "He says no, but it's a first edition."

Crowley grit his teeth. _That bibliophilic nerd, here I am in the middle of a crisis, and he's out adding to his inventory._

-*-

Crowley stood on the curb looking at Adam's dented, silver Citroen with distaste. "What happened to the Bugatti?"

"I changed it back," Adam said, pressing the unlock button on his keyfob. The Citroen clicked open dutifully.

"Whatever for?"

"Fancy car like that is great for a wild night out. This is what you drive for hangover breakfast the morning after."

Crowley stared at him.

"Well, you wouldn't want to drive a car like that all the time."

"I would," Crowley said. If he didn't have such a sentimental attachment to the Bentley, he might have bought one for himself years ago.

"Naw," Adam said, getting into the driver's side. "Where's the fun in that?"

"Where's the fun in going about in a dented old rust-bucket."

Adam put a hand possessively over the steering wheel. "I like it."

Crowley could maybe understand the attachment. There was a certain relationship between a man and his first car that just couldn't be quantified, but _still…_ "You might take better care of it," he said-- thinking both of the current pristine condition of the Bently, and the same car exploding into a flaming fireball.

"It was like this when I bought it," Adam said tersely.

_Ah_ , Crowley could understand that as well. With enough miles on the odometer, and the right sort of owner, even a Citroen C3 Pluriel could develop a personality. Once that happened, you couldn't just go messing about with adding things like tartan bike racks, and once it developed a taste in music _buckle up_ , because you can lead a car to Beethoven, but you can't make it play-- not if all it wants is radio ga ga.

-*-

They couldn't find anywhere that did crepes, but they got a full English from a place down the street. Afterwards, they began a search for the Bentley at the last pub Crowley could actually remember from the night before.

"Don't you just _know_ where it is?" Crowley asked after twenty minutes of fruitless searching.

"It doesn't work like that."

"Well, what good is it being the Antichrist, if you can't even find one bloody car?" Crowley snapped.

"I dunno. What good is it being a demon if all you do is drive around and eat in fancy restaurants?"

"It isn't any _good_ being a demon, that's the whole point!"

"What do you even care that you aren't one anymore then? I thought the whole problem that Hell had with you is that you were too human. Maybe this is better anyway."

"Being human is only fun if you aren't _actually_ human." Crowley crossed his arms and threw himself petulantly back into his seat; he didn't have that far to go. "Just find my car."

"Anathema could maybe find it for you, if it doesn't turn up; she's good with stuff like that."

"Really?" Crowley had never had that much faith in human magics.

"Sure," Adam said.  "She said that it has something to do with you guys stealing her book. She's developed a talent for finding lost things."

"We didn't steal her book," Crowley argued. "She left it in my car, and we didn't bother returning it. That's not the same thing at all."

"You sound offended."

"I don't go around stealing books from young women."

Adam snorted. "Maybe if you did, you wouldn't be in your current predicament."

Crowley hissed in frustration. "Fine, we'll ask the witch. Bring me to my flat first. I need to change out of these clothes and yell at my houseplants." Crowley lifted the lapel of his jacket and took a sniff. "What is that _smell_?"

"Yeah, I wasn't going to say anything, but you really reek. You might want to take a shower while you're at it, and try some antiperspirant."

Crowley wrinkled his nose. " _Sweat?_ I have _body odor?_ "

Adam shrugged. "Welcome to humanity."

   
  
---  
  
 


	3. Chapter 3

"Do you actually _live_ here?" Adam asked, looking around Crowley's flat. "It looks like a rainforest threw up all over the inside of a design catalogue."

"I like plants." Crowley picked up his plant mister and got to work with seeing to them. One of the ficuses was looking a little wilted, but he was feeling uncharacteristically sympathetic, so he decided to give it a pass just this once. “Don’t think this means I’m going soft,” he whispered to it in a low his.

"What are you living in London for, then? You and the angel should move out to Tadfield. We have loads of plants. You could keep a garden."

_They had kept a garden once. It had an apple tree._

Crowley scoffed. "And, how many restaurants does _Lower Tadfield_ have? How many theatres? How many museums?"

Adam shrugged. "You can always go into the city for that stuff."

"Or, I could just live in the city and keep houseplants. I'm surprised that you haven't branched out a bit. Isn't that little country village starting to feel small yet?"

Adam bristled. "It's just one part of the world. It isn't the whole thing. I can go anywhere I want."

"Have you?"

"Sure. I'm here now, aren't I?"

"Have you ever even left England?" Crowley asked.

"I spent two weeks in Hell last summer, and we went to Paris for a school trip one time."

"So, you've been to the Nine Circles of Hell and _France_."

"I liked France better," Adam said. He touched the leaves on the ficus, idly, and it immediately perked up. "So, why don't you two live together?"

"What?" Crowley spun on him. "What are you getting at?"

"You and Aziraphale," Adam said. "Seems like after all these years it'd be time to make a commitment."

Crowley sneered at him. "What would you know about it? You're what? Fifteen?"

"Nineteen," Adam corrected.

"Well, spend another six millennia with someone, and then tell me how eager you are to _cohabitate_." Crowley turned his back on him. "Anyway, we aren't a couple."

_Except that they were. Of course they were._

They'd been a couple since The Beginning, but a couple of what? That was the question. A couple of supernatural beings marooned on this little blue planet: this fantastically interesting little blue planet that they had watched grow and change? A couple of adversaries? A couple of friends? A couple of man-shaped beings who knew how to enjoy the finer things in life?

A couple of them.

 _Their_ side.

Crowley and Aziraphale against the word. No, _for the world_. Against the forces of light and darkness.

So, maybe Crowley wasn't a demon anymore. _Fine._ He'd never been very good, or rather bad, at being a demon in the first place. That didn't mean that he was powerless. That didn't mean that he was going to just roll over and _take it._

He didn't need his demonic powers to pull one over on Hell. He just needed a bit of imagination.

Hastur, and Beelzebub, and all the rest of the Dukes of Hell had better just watch out. Crowley didn't know exactly what they should watch out for, just yet, but he would come up with something. He had the Antichrist and a morally questionable angel on his side, and he wasn't afraid to use them.

-*-

 

Aziraphale was on the train, clutching a package of carefully wrapped books, and feeling incredibly guilty.

He shouldn't have just left Crowley like that, but he'd been working on getting Mrs. Westmoreland to agree to sell her inscribed copy of _The Necronomicon_ for years now, and the rest of the collection was quite nice as well. If he'd attempted to push back their appointment again, she might have changed her mind.

Still, he felt wretched about it, and he hoped that Crowley was holding up all right. Adam would look after him. He really was a good boy, despite being the seed of evil. He'd find a way to fix Crowley, and Aziraphale would find a way to make it up to him.

Everything would turn out all right. It always did.

He was feeling a bit more cheerful, thinking of lunch and that nice little bistro located so conveniently by the train station, when a professionally pleasant voice sent a cold shiver down his spine.

"Aziraphale! Long time, no see. How have you been?"

"Oh, hello, Gabriel," Aziraphale said, forcing at least a veneer of pleasantry over the wary dread sinking in his stomach. "I've been well."

"Good to hear. Good to hear," the Archangel Gabriel took a seat across the aisle and turned to face him. "Sooo, listen. It's come to our attention that Hell has revoked all of your little friend Crowley's demonic powers, and officially denounced him."

"Yes, well… I'm certain it's only a temporary state of affairs."

"Really? Because, from what I'm hearing on our end, it sounds as though it's _very_ permanent. Michael's report says that they've made him almost entirely human." Gabriel gave a mock of a shudder.

"I'm quite certain it will all be sorted out soon."

"Oh, no doubt. No doubt. _Only_ …" Grabriel tilted his head and sucked in air through his teeth. "In the meantime we're left with an imbalance of power here on Earth. And, well, we just can't have that, can we?"

Aziraphale frowned, an uncomfortable idea of where this was going forming. "What do you mean?"

Gabriel's voice went cold. "I mean that as long as Crowley was down here, providing a vaguely demonic presence on Earth, we were fine with leaving a vaguely angelic one, but now the scales have shifted. We can't have you running about with divine power, if there's no demonic power to balance the scales."

"But… _that's preposterous._ Heaven's entire goal for the last six-thousand years has been to tip the scales toward good. Why on earth would you want to lose the advantage?"

"With _mortal souls_ , Heaven has been working to turn the balance of mortal souls to good. There are rules, Aziraphale. It has to be an even contest. Otherwise, how can we be sure that we've _really_ won?" Gabriel said with a scoff.

"Ah, yes… I see…"

"Good, good." Gabriel said, and he snapped his fingers.

Aziraphale felt a heavy wave of discomfort wash over his entire body. He gaped, clutching his books to his chest, while he struggled to catch his breath.

"That doesn't look pleasant." Gabriel gave him a falsely sympathetic smile. "Well, I've got to get back upstairs. Best of luck," he said.

When he was gone, Aziraphale just sat there, feeling numb, and stared down at the package in his lap. A drop of liquid fell to the paper, making a dark little spot. He brushed at it with his thumb, frowning, and then lifted his fingers to his cheek.

He was crying.

-*-

 

Crowley was dying. He was sure of it. He let out a moan and clutched his stomach as another cramp of pain wracked through his body.

He'd filled the bathtub with water, using the taps. It took a great deal of fumbling with the adjustments to get the temperature right. He'd undressed, manually. He'd even had the foresight to find an appropriately sized blanket to use as a towel, as he didn't actually own one. He usually just willed the tub full and then willed himself dry after a nice relaxing soak. He'd never actually needed to bathe before, but he _was_ a man-shaped being who enjoyed the finer things in life, and a nice bubble bath with a glass of red wine was certainly one of the finer things in life.

He was really starting to feel as though he had a handle on things, and he was about to step into the bath when The Feeling started.

It wasn't all that painful to start with, just an unpleasant pressure in his lower abdomen. He might have ignored it, but then everything clenched in on itself, and a watery feeling went through his guts.

After a few minutes of panic, it became clear what the problem was.

He’d taken a piss twice now, since Hastur had so gleefully informed him that he was now more-or-less human. It hadn’t been all that much to worry over. _This_ , was different.

He eyed the porcelain commode dubiously.

It had come with the flat of course, all very modern, very sleek, clean white lines of porcelain-- just the sort of streamlined chamber pot that a discerning demon such as himself should have.

He'd never considered actually _using_ it. It was just part of the scenery.

His body soon made it apparent that he didn't have a lot of choice in the matter. Things were going to happen one way or the other, and it was best that they happen in the place intended for such things.

At least the humans had invented indoor plumbing…

He'd somehow managed to survive the experience. Of course, he didn't have any toilet roll. There was a little chrome holder where it was supposed to go. It just sat there, staring at him accusingly. With no other options, he made do with a rolled up sock.

How could humans do this every day, and then just go on with their lives as though nothing had happened? Just pop off to the loo with a magazine, take care of business, and be about their day. It was unfathomable.

He took two baths, making full use of all the decorative, glass bottles of nice smelling soaps and scents that he'd collected over the years.

"You were in there a long time," Adam said, when he finally emerged, fully dressed, in a cloud of steam-- his hair laying limp and wet over his forehead.

"You people are disgusting," Crowley said, and he put his sunglasses on.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The shop was dim and empty when he got back to Soho. Aziraphale went upstairs to his flat and found it similarly deserted. "Crowley! Adam!" He couldn't help but call for them anyway. "Crowley, where the devil are you?" He muttered.

He found the light switch on the wall and flipped it. Nothing happened. He toggled it a few times. The room remained dim.

Angel or not, he'd never paid the bill.

 

-*-

 

"Hey, Adam," Anathema said into her mobile, brushing her dirty hands on her yard apron.

Anathema and Newton had bought Jasmine Cottage shortly after they had married. Under her care, it had a thriving back garden, and she had never once needed to resort to threatening any of her plants. She made due with a lot of hard work with a garden trowel and the occasional bit of green magic. Most witches were naturally good at that sort of thing.

"I'm in London with my godfathers for the weekend, and I was hoping that you could help us out with something."

"All right," Anathema said uncertainly. She didn't entirely approve of either Crowley or Aziraphale-- not since one had hit her with his car, and the other had stolen her book.

"Crowley's misplaced his Bentley. Do you think you could have a look and tell us where it is?"

"Probably at the bottom of the Thames, the way he drives. That's where it belongs."

"You tell that mad, bicycle riding, harridan to tell me where my car is right now, or I'll ram it up her… Wait. Have you got this on speaker phone?"

"Hello, Mr. Crowley," Anathema said sweetly.

"Ah, er… Hello, Ms. Device."

"It's Mrs. Pulsifer," she corrected him.

"Right. Congratulations on the wedding, and all of that."

"It was seven years ago," she told him. "We have two children."

"Well, _belated_ congratulations then," he snapped. "Are you going to tell me where my car is, or not?"

"Are you going to ask nicely?" She smiled to herself as she made her way up the walk to the cottage; she really did enjoy having men over a barrel.

"Please, _Mrs. Pulsifer_ ," Crowley gritted out. "Do you think you could tell me where my car is?"

"I can try," she said. "Hold on a minute."

She went over to the corner where a very battered and tobacco stained map hung on the wall. It notably didn't have Milton Keynes on it. It didn't show Harlow. It barely had Manchester and Birmingham. The general geography of the country hadn't changed since it had been made though (probably by some nineteenth century cartographer with a quadrant and a quill pen,) so it served well enough for Anathema's purposes.

She selected a pin, thought very hard about the Bentley, and stuck it into the map. It had fallen out again before she even opened her eyes. Frowning, she knelt to pick up the pin and tried again. This time, she couldn't get it to stick into the map at all. She chose a different pin, but again, the tip seemed to slide away from the map as if influenced by strong opposing magnetic forces.

"I'm not sure…" she mumbled, trying again, but still wasn't able to make the hard , steel pin stick into the soft, cork-backed, paper map. "I'm not sure that I can help you. Unless… Is it possible you left it in another country?"

"England is an island."

"You could've taken the euro shuttle."

"I don't care how drunk I was last night," Crowly was nearly shouting. "I _did not_ take the Bentley on a train ride to _France_."

"That only leaves two options," Anathema told him. "Either your car is somehow repelling my magic, or it's been completely disintegrated."

Crowley made a choking noise.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think that I can help you either way." She really did feel a little pity for him, _a bit_. Whatever else, that was a man, _well demon_ , who truly loved his car.

She had a bicycle named Phaeton. She could sympathize.

"Okay, well, thanks anyway, Anathema," Adam said. "I guess we'll try something else. Er… I've got to go."

 

-*-

 

Aziraphale tries to call them, but of course he hasn't paid the phone bill either, and they've disconnected his service.

"Those vultures at Britsh Telecom," Aziraphale complains to the empty flat. "This is an _emergency._ "

He wandered aimlessly around for a few minutes, and then muttered, "Fuck it."

It wasn't dark out yet, but the skies overhead were dreary, and there wasn't enough light filtering in through the windows to read by, so he lit every candle he could find, made himself a nest of blankets on the couch, settled in with a bottle of wine and a P.G. Wodehouse anthology for comfort, and began to wait for Crowley.

Aziraphale just hoped that he wasn't doing anything _stupid._

 

-*-

 

The electricity in his flat had been turned off at the same time they had ended their conversation with Anathema. Crowley didn’t care. The Bentley was no more. It had been disintegrated. Its pistons no longer pumped. It’s hubcaps were all melted to scrap. It had gone to meet its maker. It was cruising the celestial highways with Walter Owen Bentley.

"Wha's that?" Crowley sniffled.

He’d been laying on the floor, drowning in his own despair, but even in the depths of grief, he could hardly miss the large black and white dog that had suddenly appeared in his flat and started sniffling at his hair. He craned his head around, still not lifting it from the floor, to get a better look. It appeared to be some kind of cross between a Border Collie and a Great Dane.

"The new plan," Adam said.

“It looks like a dog.” He sniffed the air. “It smells like…” He sniffed again—fire, and sulfur, and the tortured despair of a billion souls. “A Hellhound.”

Crowley sat up.

“That’s your Hellhound? He’s bigger than last time.”

“Yeah, well,” Adam scratched the back of his neck. “The neighbors got this Irish Wolfhound, Lacy, and he was having… adequacy issues, so… I bulked him up a bit.”

Crowley eyed the dog warily. “He isn’t going to piddle, or… _lake_ on the carpet, is he?”

“He’s properly trained,” Adam said reproachfully.

“Yes, I’m sure he’s a very well behaved… _Hellhound_.”

Adam scowled. “If you want him to help you find your car, maybe you should show him a little more respect.”

“You think that _thing_ can find my Bentley?”

“Maybe,” Adam said, “if it’s anywhere to be found.”

Crowley flopped back onto the floor. “It’s Hastur,” he said. “He’s always had this thing about fire. He’s reduced _my car_ to a smoldering pile of embers somewhere.”

“We don’t know that,” Adam said, trying to console him. “Anathema said that it could just be repelling her magic. “I’m sure that Dog can find it. They use dogs to find people all the time. I watched a program about it once.”

“Your Hellhound’s name is Dog, and you’re going to use him as a bloodhound to find my Bentley,” Crowley said, disbelieving.

“I told you, it’s the new plan. It’s a good plan.”

“No, it’s the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard. How’s he supposed to get the scent? _Here dog, good boy, smell the old tire._ He’ll drag us around London, pissing _lakes_ on every car we pass.”

Adam made a thoughtful noise. “Well, maybe we can just show him a picture.”

Crowley sat up and spun around so that he could give Adam a dead-eyed stare over the rims of his sunglasses.

“Have you got a better idea, then?” Adam demanded.

Crowley flopped back down on the floor.

“Oh, yeah, real helpful, that,” Adam said. “C’mon Dog, Let’s go find Demon Sassypants of The Pit of Despair’s precious Bentley, so that you can piss on the tires and chew on the upholstery.”

He made for the door.

“Hey,” Crowley called after him, “Hang on one minute.” He hurried to catch up.

“So, where do you garage the car normally?” Adam asked when Crowley joined him on the street. “I figure that’s the best place to start. Give Dog a chance to get the scent.”

“The scent of steel, tire rubber, and engine grease?” Crowley asked.

“If you aren’t going to be helpful…”

“Fine. Fine,” Crowley relented. “I don’t have a garage.”

“You park _that thing_ on the street.”

“That thing,” Crowley said, tartly, “is a 1926 Bentley. Talk about showing respect.”

“Well, yeah,” Adam said. “Aren’t you worried about vandals or car thieves?”

“I’d like to see them _try_ ,” Crowley growled. “The Bentley would eat them alive and spit out the bones.”

Adam raised a brow. “What about weathering from the elements?”

“Some supernatural entities currently present know how to properly maintain their vehicles.”

“The first time I saw that car, it was a blazing ball of fire.”

“Extenuating circumstances,” Crowley said. “ _Someone_ decided to start a world-ending apocalypse; sacrifices needed to be made.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Adam said. “I put everything right after.”

“Does your father know that you use that kind of language?”

“He encourages it.”

“Your _mortal_ father,” Crowley clarified. “You know, Mr. Young the bank manager with the mustache, and the pipe, and the car that he never drives more than five miles under the speed limit. Does _he_ know that you go around telling your elders to fuck off?”

“He’s a chartered accountant,” Adam said.

“Of course he is.”

“Do you want to stand here and bitch at me all day, or do you want to see if Dog can find your car?” Adam asked.

“Okay, fine,” Crowley said. He walked over to where he normally parked the Bentley, on the street. “Listen carefully, Dog! It’s a black, 1926 Bentley, about this big!” he threw his arms wide. “It has James Bond bullet hole decals in the window. It’s usually blasting Freddy Mercury out of its non-existent speakers. May or may not currently have a tartan bike rack. But, more than likely closely resembles a pile of ashes. Fetch!”

Dog wagged his tail. There was a pop of displaced air, and the Hellhound was gone.

Crowley stopped his histrionics and turned to Adam, flabbergasted. “Where’s he gone?”

Adam looked smug. “To get your car.”

 

-*-

 

Aziraphale had gone through two bottles of wine, normally only the start of a usual Wednesday evening, but he was feeling a bit woozy and fuzzy round the edges.

The text on the pages of his book had gone all wavy, and he'd lost the sense of the story ages ago in any case. He was pretty sure that Jeeves had done something to once again get Bertie out of some social entanglement, and fend off the hordes of unwanted suitors, while keeping him suitably well-dressed, but the details had gone foggy. And anyway, no matter how many times he read it, they were never going to get on with it and just _kiss_ already-- no matter how obvious it was that they were madly in love with each other.

So, what was the point?

Aziraphale threw the book down in disgust and poured himself another glass.

  
-*-

  
They'd been waiting for ages. Whole generations had lived and died. Civilizations had risen and fallen. Crowley was sure of it.

In truth, it had been about two hours.

Finally, _finally,_ there was another pop of displaced air, and Dog reappeared, wagging his tail-- a CD jewel case clamped between his jaws.

"Oh!" Crowley jumped up from where he'd been sitting on the curb, garnering strange looks from pedestrians. He'd recognized the CD instantly.  It was the Velvet Underground one that had been sitting on the passenger seat the last time he'd seen the Bentley. "Good dog! Good boy!" He took the CD reverently, despite the strings of drool dripping from it.

"Is it from the Bentley?" Adam asked.

"Yes."

"How can you be sure?"

Crowley flipped the case open and showed it to Adam. The disc inside read,  _Best of Queen._

"Trust me. It's from the Bentley, " Crowley said, cradling it like a baby bird.

"Okay. Good job, Dog. Now, bring us to the car."

Dog wagged his tail and disappeared again.

"Perhaps you should have been a bit more specific," Crowley said.

They waited again. At some point, it must have become apparent to Dog that they weren't in hot pursuit, so they only had to wait about fifteen minutes this time instead of a couple hours.

"We can't go that way," Adam explained when he'd returned. "You have to show us how to get there on foot."

Dog cocked his head to the side and barked.

"What does that mean?"

"Do I look like Doctor Dolittle?" Adam asked. "I don't speak Hellhound." He stared very intently into Dog's eyes. "Now Dog, I need you to take us to the Bentley."

Dog barked again and once more disappeared.

They repeated this pantomime several more times before they gave up and made their way back to Soho.

They had to put the top down to fit Dog into the Citroen.

It started raining.

 

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

"Oh, Crowley, you're back," Aziraphale said from his blanket cocoon on the couch, when Crowley and Adam walked in with Dog hot on their heels. "I'm so sorry. I never should have gone to Croydon. The most _terrible_ thing has happened."

"You have no idea, angel" Crowley said, clutching his CD to his chest.

"You can't call me that anymore," Aziraphale whimpered. "They've done it to me as well, you see. Gabriel said that they couldn't have that kind of imbalance of power, so if you weren't a rogue demon anymore, then I couldn't be a rogue angel either. Oh, Crowley, _it's awful_."

"Just wait until you need to use the loo," Crowley muttered under his breath. "Budge up." He pushed Aziraphale's blanket cocoon over enough to make room for himself on the couch. He tentatively put an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders, and the angel, or maybe former angel, melted into him and buried his face into the shoulder of Crowley's jacket.

"What are we going to do?" Aziraphale asked between hiccupping sobs.

"Right now," Crowley said, reaching over to grab the bottle of merlot off the tea table, "we're going to drink. Tomorrow, we'll think of something."

 -*-

Adam isn't sure what to do about any of this.

He'd thought that maybe if he could find the Bentley, it would give Crowley his mojo back, and then he could just step back and let them take care of things on their own, but that hadn't exactly panned out. Their failure at locating the car had only sent Crowley spiraling further down into the depths of self-pity and depression. Adam had been counting on Aziraphale to get him out of his funk, but now instead of one pitiful semi-supernatural being, he had two.

Two of the very small number of adults in his life that seemed to actually have a handle on what was really going on, had taken a nose-dive off the deep end.

Adam was at a loss for what to do about it.

In the meantime, he wandered around the flat, relighting candles that had gone out, while Aziraphale alternated between crying jags and long philosophical tirades about the nature of good and evil, and Crowley rubbed his back and drank wine straight out of the bottle.

With nothing else to do to help them, Adam decided that he'd go and buy all of them some dinner. If nothing else, it wouldn't hurt to get some food into them on top of all the alcohol.

-*-

"I'd just hoped that we were done with it all, you know," Aziraphale was saying, "Gabriel, and Beelzebub, and the lot of them. We tendered our resignation. It was supposed to be you and me with the world at our wingtips, the Heavens above, and Hell under our boot heels. We did our bit. It was supposed to be over."

"That's real pretty. _Poetic_ ," Crowley said," but, come on, angel, we both knew this wasn't over."

They had rearranged Aziraphale's cocoon of blankets to encompass both of them, and Crowley had thrown off his jacket and sunglasses, to lay more comfortably, sprawled with one arm over the back of the couch. Aziraphale had sunk slowly over into Crowley until he was laying half on top of him.

"I told you that you can't call me that anymore," Aziraphale protested.

"I'll call you whatever I like," Crowley said, running his fingers through Aziraphale's curls.

"Mmm," Aziraphale hummed. "Tha' feels nice." He flopped his head down onto Crowley's chest. "Why do you smell like the inside of a perfumery?"

Crowley's hand stopped its stroking. "There was… perspiration, and… other things. Is it too much?"

"Hmm… a bit, but it's kinda nice too."

Crowley's fingers started their motion again.

"What're we going to do?" Aziraphale moaned for what must have been the hundredth time. Crowley still didn't have an answer for him.

"Tomorrow," he said.

"What are we going to do _tomorrow_?" Aziraphale persisted.

"I'll think of something."

"Okay." Aziraphale settled again. "Hey, Crowley?"

"Yes, angel?"

"If we die-"

"We aren't going to _die_ ," Crowley cut him off. "We'll figure something out."

"Yes, but _if_ we die," Aziraphale persisted. "Do you think I'll go to Heaven, and you'll go to Hell?"

"That's never going to happen. They've tried it before. Temporary discorporation, and bureaucracy, and Armageddon couldn't separate us. We're not going to let a little thing like death do it." Crowley's fingers gripped tightly in Aziraphale's hair. "If Heaven tries to take you, I'll just drag you back down, and if Hell wants me, you can pull me up. Neither side can have us. We'll just haunt the Earth for all eternity, _together_."

Aziraphale looked up to give him a soft smile. "That wouldn't be so bad."

"I can think of worse ways to spend an afterlife," Crowley agreed.

Aziraphale hefted out a sigh. "I'm just nowhere near ready for it to be over yet. There's still so much that I haven't done. And me, with six thousand years under my belt. I can't imagine what it must be like for the humans."

Crowley shrugged. "They have their coping mechanisms. I believe alcohol was invented solely to drown out the existential dread caused by the knowledge of the finite nature of their lives. And, of course, they have children, and their children have children, and their grandchildren have children. When everyone that ever knew them in life is dead, some little part of them lives on for a while in their genetic legacy. Then there are all those authors and poets you're so mad about. Willy Shakespeare has been dead and gone for over four hundred years, but right now there's probably some poncy idiot strutting the stage, spouting off a suicidal soliloquy in iambic pentameter."

Aziraphale gave him a soft smile. "I suppose we have made our own marks on history, here and there."

"Course we have. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate and The Serpent in the Garden, we're right there in Genesis. No mention of us in Revelations though, _bastards_."

"I've been thinking that they ought to rewrite that bit," Aziraphale said. "Your entrance was really quite impressive. You deserve at least a few verses for that, surely."

Crowley's eyes crinkled at the edges, and he cupped Aziraphale's jaw and kissed the top of his head.

Aziraphale took in a sharp gasp of breath and let it out in a sigh.

Crowley frowned. "Angel?"

"Hmm?" His eyes had fluttered closed.

"Are you bloody serious right now? _Six thousand years_ , and a kiss on the forehead, _that's_ what does it for you?"

"Does what, my dear?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley nudged his thigh between Aziraphale's legs. " _That_."

Aziraphale made the gasping noise again. "Oh. _Oh my_. That _is_ embarrassing." He shifted away from Crowley the best he could. "That's never happened to me before."

"What? An erection?" Crowley asked, disbelieving.

"Well, I don't usually bother with any of the necessary equipment. I guess when Gabriel took my power, it put everything back to… factory settings, as it were. I hadn't even noticed until just now."

"What? _Never_?"

"Well, I make a bit of an effort if I have an appointment with my tailor. There are uncomfortable questions otherwise, or at least there were in the old days. I've found this new shop, just around the corner, that caters to that sort of thing. It's fantastic. I've never had such a well-tailored pair of trousers." 

"No, wait. Hold the phone. Rewind. I don't care about your _tailor_ ," Crowley said, "though it wouldn't hurt you to update your wardrobe to the 21st century."

"I have a _classic_ style," Aziraphale told him. "It's timeless."

"Yeah, whatever," Crowley dismissed. "No wardrobe is complete without a selection of tartan bow ties. But, do you really mean to tell me that this is the first time you've ever had an erection?"

Aziraphale suffused a light pink. "Well, as I said, angels don't usually go in for that sort of thing. Though, I must say, it isn't _entirely_ unpleasant." He shifted his hips. "Have you got one?" he moved his hand toward Crowley's crotch, but Crowley grabbed his wrist before he could get there.

"It's generally considered _polite_ to ask before you go groping people, angel," Crowley growled out. He hadn't had one at the beginning of this conversation, but after millenniums of frustration, the mere suggestion that he might have the smallest hope of finally getting one off with his angel had his single-minded dick ready to stand at attention.

"Oh, of course," Aziraphale said. "I'm dreadfully sorry. This is all a bit out of my purview."

"That has all suddenly become abundantly clear." All those years spent looking for a flicker of reciprocated arousal from a casual touch, waiting for some kind of response, and apparently Aziraphale didn’t _bother with the necessary equipment._ He didn't know whether to scream in frustration, or just grab his angel by his brand new cock and never let go.

"You needn't be mean about it," Aziraphale said. "None of this has been easy for you either. You were a mess yesterday when I picked you up from the _police station_. I haven't had as long as you to get used to our new circumstances."

Crowley rubbed his face with both hands. "It isn't that, _you_ _idiot._ "

"What then?" Aziraphale huffed.

Crowley made a grand production of rolling his eyes and pulled Aziraphale's hand, which he still held by the wrist, down to the straining front of his trousers. "One of us hasn't spent the last six thousand years walking around like a eunuch." Crowley let go of his wrist, and Aziraphale groped at him curiously. Crowley bit his lip and sucked breath in through his nose. "You've really no idea how long I've been wanting you to do that."

"Oh," Aziraphale squeaked. "Oh, I am sorry. I really had no idea."

"Obviously," Crowley said. "Ahhh, angel."

"Mmm. It really is quite nice, isn't it?"

-*-

Adam returned some little time later.

"I hope curry is all right. I figured you could use... Oh! Oh, sorry." Adam froze in the doorway.

He spun around.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," he said.

"Well… ah,... I'll just leave this here… ah… for later."

He set the bag of food down in the doorway, without turning around, and fled back downstairs into the shop.

" _Not a couple_ , my arse,” he muttered to the empty air.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're rereading this, or you got caught in between my edits, you may have noticed that the "engine hand crank" that Dog brought back from the Bentley is now a CD. I realized, much to my embarrassment, that the my car knowledge failed me, and what I mistook for an engine hand crank in the series was actually a lug wrench, and both the '33 Bentley from the series, and the '26 Bentley from the books have keyed ignitions. Anyway, I think the CD is funnier anyway. And, yeah, if I'm using the '26 Bentley, it should maybe be a cassette tape, but with The Velvet Underground reference, and because I'm using the series timeline, I figured Crowley would have upgraded the sound system, even if he's still using an analog answering machine.


	6. Chapter 6

"So… I might not have been completely… forthcoming on the whole situation the last time that I talked to you," Adam tells Anathema over the phone on Wednesday.

"Are you still in London?" Anathema asks. "Don't you have school?"

"I have more pressing problems than a few missing assignments," Adam tells her. "Anyway, everyone skips in Uni; it's part of the experience."

"Not people in Oxford on an academic scholarship."

"If I wanted a lecture, I'd be in class. Just listen, okay?"

"What's going on?" There's a hint of concern in her voice now.

"I need you to come to London. There's a… thing." Adam looked over to the couch, where Crowley and Aziraphale were passed out, practically naked, in the center of a disaster zone.

Empty wine bottles, dirty glasses and take away containers had completely hidden the tea table. Books, clothes, and blankets lay scattered haphazardly on the floor. An alarming array of beauty and household products that were not intended for personal lubrication were toppled over in a heap by one side of the couch. When it became apparent to Adam that this was the reason for their presence, he had made a trip to one of the sex shops down the street and discreetly left a bag of safer alternatives where his godfathers could find them, and then scurried away before they noticed him.

"I can't just drop everything and go to London," Anathema was saying. "I have children."

"Look, I have no idea what I'm doing here. Crowley and Aziraphale have had their magic, or whatever, taken away. They're… not handling it well. And, apparently, neither one of them has paid their bills, in like… forever. So I've spent hours on the phone with the electric company, trying to take care of decades of back payments. Thank whoever that Aziraphale actually owns this building, because Crowley is being evicted. I'm sure the taxman will be beating down the door any minute, and since Aziraphale doesn't seem to actually have sold a book, ever, there's not really all that much in his bank account. Crowley claims to have investments, but he doesn't actually seem to have any idea what they are. They have no idea how to take care of themselves. All they do is argue, drink, eat take out, and have sex. Then they pass out for a few hours, nurse their hangovers, and do it all over again. They don't even go to the bedroom, Anathema. They just snog on the couch like a couple of teenagers. They don't even seem to notice that I'm here. I swear, if I didn't leave the room, they'd just carry on with me watching. I'm teaching two idiots that are a thousand times older than me how to adult. I don't even know how to adult."

Adam took a deep calming breath. "Help me."

There was a long moment of silence from the other end of the line.

"Okay, I'll be there in a few hours," Anathema said, her tone quiet.

"Thank you," he said to Anathema and whatever powers that be looked out for recalcitrant Antichrists.

-*-

Adam threw a bottle of paracetamol at Crowley's sleeping face. It bounced off the rim of his sunglasses, knocking them askew, and landed on Aziraphale's head, where it lay on Crowley's chest. And, really, did that bastard not even take those damned sunglasses off when he was sleeping?

Judging from the movement of one uncovered eyebrow, the projectile had had its intended effect.

"Wake up, take a shower, and put some pants on," Adam told him, "and try to clean up in here. It smells like the inside of a brothel."

"Have you ever been inside a brothel?" Crowley asked, his voice raspy from either sleep or his, no doubt heinous, hangover.

"No," Adam admitted, "but am I wrong?"

Crowley's nostrils flared and then a devilish smirk curled his lips. "No, you are not."

Adam made an exasperated noise and started heading for the door before either Aziraphale or Crowley could actually start getting up and reveal whatever the blanket that was covering them was barely managing to cover.

He paused at the door. "We have company coming. So, either do what I say, or face the embarrassment of Anathema walking in here and seeing all of this." He gestured around behind him.

Crowley was grinning. He could just tell by that self-satisfied tone in his voice. "Who says I'd be embarrassed?"

"Shower. Pants. Clean," Adam repeated, and stamped down the stairs.

He felt like his father, and then had a pang of pity for the poor man.

-*-

Crowley ran his fingers through Aziraphale's hair. When that only caused him to murmur happily and snuggle deeper into Crowley's chest, he pulled lightly instead. The noises changed from contented, to disgruntled, to pained.

"Cr'wley, wassa fir?"

"Wake up, angel."

With interminable effort, Aziraphale lifted his head and blinked blue eyes at Crowley. "We did it again, didn't we?" He asked in a voice that was half a groan.

"Yeah. Looks like."

"We're never going to come up with a plan, if we keep doing this."

"Maybe if you didn't insist on planning over dinner," Crowley suggested.

"I think better on a full stomach."

"Or if you didn't insist on having wine with dinner," Crowley continued.

"It was Italian. You can't have Italian without wine."

"Or if you weren't such a handsy drunk," Crowley persisted.

"I wasn't drunk, and I don't recall you complaining about my hands."

Crowley hummed, recalling for a moment, and then said, "Adam is getting impatient with us. He's called in reinforcements. Anathema is coming."

"Adam." Aziraphale said the name as though he'd completely forgotten that the boy existed until just that moment-- despite the fact that he'd been berating them about money and adult responsibilities for the last three days. Aziraphale let his head fall back onto Crowley's chest and groaned.

"We need to make ourselves somewhat presentable, or so I'm told. He was very disapproving."

"We really do need to get our act together," Aziraphale lamented.

"Yeah," Crowley agreed, trailing his hand down Aziraphale's back, "in a bit."

-*-

Anathema squinted at them in an odd way. "I don't think you're human." She drew out a monocle, attached by a chain to her coat, and held it up to her eye as she stuttered her eyelid open and closed, winking at the space around Aziraphale. "You don't appear to have auras." She repeated the process with Crowley, and then looked Adam over before returning the monocle to her pocket. "You did before. They were strange, but they were there."

"Strange, how?" Aziraphale asked.

"They fluctuated. It isn't unusual for auras to change based on a person's mood or health, but it's gradual. You two were more like strobe lights at a disco, and your auras influenced each other. But now, I don't see anything. You're like Adam."

"Antichrists?" Crowley asked skeptically.

"No," Anathema said. "I don't think so. Just not human, but not exactly occult or ethereal either."

"We'd rather assumed that much already," Aziraphale said. "More tea?" He held the pot up with the spout angled toward her cup. She nodded and he poured. "Crowley's eyes haven't changed, you see, and my hair isn't quite a natural color for a human."

Crowley snorted.

"For a man my age," Aziraphale said.

Crowley snorted again, and Aziraphale kicked him under the table, smiling pleasantly at Anathema. "I don't suppose you have any idea of how to reverse it?"

"I'm not sure how it was done in the first place. I would have thought that your power was innately part of your being. "

"Granted by the grace of God, I'm afraid," Aziraphale said.

"For both of you?" Anathema asked, looking at Crowley.

Crowley shrugged. "I lost a few abilities after I fell, picked up a few others."

"Have you tried any human magic?" Anathema asked.

"Aziraphale has a terrible stage act," Crowley said-- only trying to be helpful.

Aziraphale kicked him again.

"Ow!" Crowley rubbed his shin. "That one was hard."

"Sleight of hand isn't going to help us," Aziraphale said.

"And you think crystal gazing and tarot cards will?" Crowley asked.

"It couldn't hurt. Every little bit helps."

-*-

They spent the afternoon with Anathema showing them different techniques for accessing the inner eye-- Aziraphale earnestly attempting each of the increasingly ridiculous methods of human magic while Crowley made snide or disparaging comments, and Adam gamely went along with it all.

They'd come full circle back to the tea service, and Aziraphale was staring very intently into the bottom of Crowley's teacup.

"That bit there looks a bit like a snake. That must be you, my dear."

"The snake is a symbol of treachery and disloyalty," Anathema said.

"Bigot," Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale frowned. "Well, this one here looks like a music note. What does that mean?"

"That's a good one. It means that you'll be happy."

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

"And this bit looks like a turtle," Aziraphale said, all boisterous enthusiasm.

"That one means you're going to attempt something that you have no knowledge of."

Crowley snorted. "Sounds about right."

"Ooh, do mine now," Aziraphale begged, a broad smile across his face.

The daft nerd was in magician's heaven.

Crowley glanced in the cup without lifting it from the saucer. "Looks like a big phallus and a bottle of wine."

Aziraphale's mouth dropped open and he turned pink.

"I rather doubt it," Anathema said, "but those are symbols of fertility and happy days."

"There you have it, angel," Crowley said. "You're going to have a baby."

Aziraphale huffed in annoyance, but he was still smiling, so Crowley figured that wine and cocks might still be on the menu, regardless of what Anathema had to say about it, and that would make him very happy indeed.

"Let's see what you have, Adam," Anathema said, taking Adam's cup and swirling it about a bit before she turned it over to look inside. "Oh." The sound came out in a squeak.

"What is it?" Aziraphale asked, leaning over to get a look. "Well… that doesn't leave a lot to interpretation."

"Give me that," Crowley said, taking the cup to satisfy his own curiosity. His face fell when he saw it, and the cup slipped from his hand.

It rocked around in a slow circle in the middle of the table, flashing an almost photographic image of a skull as it spun around to face each of them.

"So, listen guys," Adam started, "I've been thinking…"


	7. Chapter 7

"I'm not sure how I feel about this," Anathema says as Adam gives her a hand out of the car.

Today the Citroen is a lime green, 1971 Cadillac Funeral Coach S&S Victoria. Aziraphale had thought it a bit gauche under the circumstances, but Crowley was absolutely tickled by the choice, so he hadn't said so.

"It's fine," Adam said as they approached the automatic double doors of Tender Mercy Hospice Center. "This is what the tea said to do."

"Reading tea leaves isn't an exact science," Anathema admits. "You may be misinterpreting."

"Nope," Adam says confidently. "This is definitely what we're supposed to do. This is an excellent plan."

"Like your last excellent plan?" Crowley asked.

"Hey, that worked, sort of," Adam defended. "Anyway the two of you weren't being any help, just getting drunk and canoodling on the couch. Someone had to take charge."

" _Canoodling?"_ Crowley made a pained expression.

"I do feel as though we owe you an apology for… our behavior," Aziraphale said. The tips of his ears had gone pink. "The change in our circumstances has been a bit of a shock. It's all very new to us. We may have gotten a bit carried away."

"I'll say," Adam said. "Let's just get everything back to the way it was before."

"Not _exactly_ the way it was before," Crowley muttered. He snaked a hand over to goose Aziraphale.

"Stop that," Aziraphale hissed, batting his hand away, but there was a smile hidden beneath the disapproving glare.

A large woman in nursing scrubs sat at the reception desk in the lobby of the hospice center. She gave them a patented public service smile, and asked, "How can I help you?"

"Yeah," Crowley said, striding to the front of the group without employing any of his usual charm. "Which one of your patients is the closest to snuffing it?"

Aziraphale wondered if perhaps Crowley's abilities for persuasion were directly tied in with his power of demonic temptation, or if the recent loss of his Bentley had somehow changed him from That Flash Bastard to just your garden variety asshole.

"Excuse me?" the receptionist asked.

"Kick it," Crowley said. "Bite the dust. Shudder off this mortal coil. Take a dirt nap with Jesus," he spared a glance at Adam, "or _whoever_."

The receptionist looked about ready to call the police, so Aziraphale put a hand on Crowley's shoulder to restrain his enthusiasm, and stepped forward with a pleasant smile. He glanced at her nametag.

"Karen,” he said with his best being-nice-to-the-person-you’re-asking-for-a-favor smile, “I must apologize for my colleague's lack of decorum. He's suffering from a recent loss of his own. I'm sure you have experience with how everyone deals with grief differently. I assure you that he will not make any further outbursts." He shot Crowley a glare and earned a raised eyebrow and a mocking look in return.

"We are… spiritual advisors," Aziraphale continued. "We've been sent to keep a death vigil for someone in their last hours, but we aren't entirely sure who it is that we're here to see. Perhaps you could be of some assistance?"

Karen's smile hadn't entirely returned, but she appeared less inclined to call the authorities. "Well, I suppose that would be Ms. Addams," she said. "She's in room 203. It won't be long now."

Aziraphale thanked her and they made their way toward the stairs.

"You lied _,_ " Crowley said, "I'm so proud."

"I did not," Aziraphale said, straightening the hang of his coat. "I used misdirection. It's an important skill for any stage magician.”

"You _lied_." Crowley drew it out, seeming to lean his whole body into the word with complete gleeful enjoyment. "Admit it."

"I would never."

"You're a big fat lying, liar, who _lies_ ," Crowley continued as they started up the stairs.

Aziraphale's face pouted into a hurt look and he rested a hand against his stomach. "It's just a bit of pudge. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to get more exercise, skip dessert once in a while. Now that we're human, I suppose…"

"Shut up, angel," Crowley said at the top of the stairs, and Aziraphale turned to look at him, big blue eyes full of uncertainty. _Oh, but how I love this dork_ , he couldn't help but think. "It's just an expression. You know I love your pudge, cherub."

Crowley turned to continue on down the hall where Anathema and Adam had gone on without them, but not quite fast enough to miss the bright smile that suffused Aziraphale's entire countenance.

-*-

Not long now is apparently nurse's code for all bloody day.

The occupant of room 203, one Elizabeth Addams, has been unconscious for the entirety of their wait. Nurses come in periodically to check all the beeping machinery, double check the information being given to them by all the beeping machinery manually, cast curious looks at the four people keeping vigil in Ms. Addams' room, and make cliché remarks of condolences. 'Her pain will be over soon,' and, 'she lived a good life,’ and, Crowley’s favorite, ‘she’s going to a better place.'

If the cocktail of drugs that the nurses were giving her was any indication, she wasn’t in any pain now. Considering that it was four complete strangers doing death watch duties, with no friends or family in sight, he wasn’t so sure that she had lived such a great life. And, as for a _better place_ , well, Crowley had done his time in both Heaven and Hell, and neither one of them was all that great. If the options were an eternity of boredom in Heaven, or an eternity of excitement in Hell, Crowley gave a hard pass. Earth was the only place he’d ever been that was worth fighting for. This _was_ the better place. The real tragedy was that the practicing religions of the world worked so hard for a chance at paradise when paradise was all around them—if they only opened their eyes.

“It’s so sad that she doesn’t have any people here,” Aziraphale said. “I wonder what she was like.”

“She might have been a terrible person,” Crowley said. “Could have alienated her family, and talked in the theatre, and never tipped her waiters.”

“You talk in the theatre,” Aziraphale accused.

“Only if it’s important or the play is really bad,” Crowley said. “Anyway, I’m a demon; what’s your excuse.”

“Were a demon,” Aziraphale said.

“We’re here,” Adam broke in. “She won’t die alone at least.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “Yes, I suppose we are. Do you think we should give her last rights?”

“Well, she’s unconscious, so you can’t exactly minister to her,” Crowley pointed out, “and it says Church of England on her chart, so no basting her with salad dressing or chanting in Latin either.”

“Ah, well, I feel as though we should do something.”

“We could smother her with a pillow to hurry things along,” Crowley suggested. He was met with three sets of accusing eyes. “What? Oh, come on.” He gestured emphatically at the bed. “She isn’t waking up. She’s dying. There’s no stopping it, _she_ sure as hell isn’t going to care, and I’m getting hungry.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to think of someone besides yourself, Crowley,” Aziraphale admonished. “A woman is dying.”

“And she ought to get on with it,” Crowley said. “Ending it now would be a mercy-- for everyone.”

“Stop it, both of you,” Adam said.

“I don’t think it much matters anyway,” Anathema pointed out. “Her aura is fading.”

Just then, the steadily beeping machines started a klaxon.

“Quick, Anathema,” Adam said. “Unplug that. We don’t want a bunch of nurses in here.”

Anathema unplugged the machines, but the siren didn’t stop.

“They have backup batteries,” Crowley hissed. “That isn’t going to work.”

Anathema looked around frantically for a solution, and her eyes landed on the open window. Before anyone could suggest anything else, she’d hefted the monitor, stand and all, and tossed it through the screen and out the window. It crashed to the pavement a story below with a sound like Keith Richards trashing a hotel room. That party at the Beverly Hilton had been fun-- some of Crowley’s best work.

“Right, because no one will have heard that,” Adam said.

“YOU AGAIN,” a deep basso voice said from behind them, and they all turned away from the window to see the man… person… being of a skeletal persuasion that they had been waiting for.

“Hey,” Adam said.

Anathema, Aziraphale, and Crowley all gave a little wave.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Adam told Death, “we were hoping to have a word.”

“ALL MEN WAIT FOR DEATH, BUT USUALLY NOT SO DELIBERATELY. WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

“We need a word with the powers that be,” Adam said. “Do you think we could hitch a ride?”

“THE RIVER STYX RUNS, BUT ONE WAY,” Death said. He pointed one bony digit at Anathema. “HER, I CAN TAKE, WHEN THE TIME COMES, BUT ONLY HUMAN SOULS MAY BOARD THE BOAT.”

“Are you saying that the rest of us don’t have souls? That we can’t die?” Adam asked.

“YOU DO NOT HAVE HUMAN SOULS. I WILL NEVER COLLECT YOU. YOUR BODIES ARE MORTAL, AND ALL THINGS MORTAL WILL DIE, BUT IT IS NOT IN MY POWER TO CARRY YOU TO THE AFTERLIFE.”

“So, when we die, that’s it?” Adam demanded. “We’re not human, so we don’t get an afterlife?”

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME KID? IF YOU WANT TO KILL THE WOMAN, I CAN TAKE HER, BUT IF YOU WANT TO GO TO HEAVEN, YOU OTHER THREE WILL HAVE TO FIND YOUR OWN RIDE.”

“Well, we were hoping to get into Hell actually,” Aziraphale said, helpfully.

Death tilted his head to the side, empty sockets staring at Adam. “YOU ARE THE SON OF SATAN. HEIR TO THE PITS OF HELL,” he told him. “IF YOU WANT TO GO TO HELL, JUST WALK IN THE FRONT GATE.”

“I can do that?” Adam asked. On his other trips to the pits, a demon had always been sent to collect him.

Death waved his scythe over the bed, and the soul of Elizabeth Addams rose up as a mist of white fog and faded away.

“OF COURSE,” he said, and turned toward the door. “IDIOT.”

  

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

"So, that's the main entrance?" Adam asked, looking at the set of escalators skeptically. "It's in a bank building."

"Just on the outside," Crowley said. "The mundanes ignore it that way."

Adam looked around. "It pretty much looks like a bank building inside too."

"Are you sure about this?" Aziraphale asked.

"It's what the tea told us to do,” Adam said.

"No," Crowley said. "Your tea leaves turned into a skull, and you decided that meant that we needed to ask Death to bring us to Hell. Ol' boney called you an idiot, and said that the Antichrist could go to Hell whenever he damn well pleased."

"I don't think he put it just like that," Aziraphale said, "apart from the idiot bit."

"The tea told us to talk to Death, and Death told us to come here," Adam said confidently. "It's a quest. You've got to follow the clues."

"I think you're reading a bit too much into all of this," Anathema said. She had a lot of faith in divination, but she had a feeling that Adam was falling for that old standby of television psychics everywhere-- throwing out vague details and letting people jump to their own conclusions. There hadn't been anything vague about the skull in Adam's teacup, but the boy's conclusion that a symbol of imminent death meant that he should make an unexpected call on his biological father left her with a worrying suspicion of just how well this was all going to end.

Dog barked, wagging his tail, and ran to the edge of the down escalator and back to Adam a few times.

"See, even Dog thinks it's an excellent plan,” Adam said.

“I’m starting to see a pattern here,” Crowley said.

Anathema took a step back from the de-escalator. "I think I’ll wait here. You three might not have human souls, but I'm not sure what would happen to me if I tag along."

"Dante made it through just fine," Crowley said.

"Yes," Aziraphale said, "but… did you ever talk to him afterwards?"

"Right," Crowley said, "Maybe, best to stay here."

Adam just shrugged. "Whatever. Let's just get it over with. I hate that place."

"I think that's rather the idea," Aziraphale pointed out.

Adam ignored him and stepped onto the escalator to start the descent, Dog brushing past to run down ahead of him. 

Crowley looked to Aziraphale and gestured to the escalator. “After you.” 

Aziraphale braced himself and took a step forward, only to immediately be pushed back.

"Uh, Adam…" Aziraphale called after the fast retreating figures of boy and dog. "There seems to be some sort of barrier." 

Adam turned around, still descending for a moment before he realized what was going on. Aziraphale's hand was raised flat in the air, resting against the invisible wall. Adam cursed and started running back up the escalator, making slow progress as he descended one step for every two he took forward. He was panting heavily and red with exertion when he finally made it back into the lobby. Dog was at his side, smiling and wagging his tail in joy at this new game.

"I thought Death said we could all go," Adam said.

"Technically," Crowley pointed out. "He only said that you could. S'pose we'll just have to wait here with Anathema. Ah, well, best of luck. Say hi to your father for me."

"No," Adam said. "I'm not going down there alone. I just think… maybe I need to take you." He held out his hand.

"What's that for?" Crowley asked.

"Let's just try it," Aziraphale said. He took Adam's other hand and looked pointedly at Crowley.

Crowley huffed and took Adam's outstretched hand. He reached his free hand out to test the barrier that was barring their entry into the underworld, and found the way cleared for them.

"Oh, fine then. We'll all just hold hands like in nursery school," Crowley huffed. "I'm sure no one will have anything to say about that." He stepped onto the escalator, and Adam and Aziraphale followed.

They stood awkwardly in single file with their hands linked as they descended into the depths of Hell.

-*-

The escalator emerged slowly through a kind of tunnel. Some wit has inscribed 'abandon all hope, you who enter here,' in red lipstick on an overhead beam at the mouth of the tunnel. 

They were spit out onto a wide bridge, with a moving walkway, that looked down over the outer rings. Adam tentatively released their hands, and when nothing bad happened, they all stepped onto the travelator.

Aziraphale glanced down, and then wished that he hadn't. Below, ragged figures ran on a mass of wriggling worms, covered and swarmed by wasps, while occasionally a bored demon cracked a whip. He shuddered and took a step closer to Crowley.

The bridge crossed the river Styx, where Charon was busy poling his human-souls-only gondola across the dark, stagnant water. Adam gave him a wave, just to be cheeky, but the cloaked and hooded figure of Death made no response.

"He's such a twat," Adam muttered, and Crowley burst out laughing.

"I laugh in the face of Death, and call him a twat," Crowley choked out. "Now, we stride boldly into Hell to give the Devil his due."

"What is wrong with you?" Aziraphale asked, really wanting to know.

Crowley ran a finger under the rim of his sunglasses to wipe away a tear. "All evidence points to insanity, because this is crazy. We're all going to die." 

"We aren't going to die," Adam said. "Just shut up for once, and let me do the talking.”

Crowley mimed sliding a zipper across his lips, but anyone who’d ever met him knew that that wouldn’t last long.

The bridge stretched out before them, arching over the first five circles as it moved steadily downward into the pits. Below them are human souls being tortured for a variety of sins, and their cries ebb and fall in a constant tide. 

Aziraphale can’t help but look down in curiosity as they cross the second circle, where the tortures being inflicted upon the lustful offer a view of depravity that he could never have imagined. Crowley must have picked up on his shock, because he took Aziraphale’s hand and leaned closer. 

“They all think they’re so clever with their leather and chains. They don’t realize that the humans have thought it all up before them, and in an infinite number of more inventive scenarios.” He points out one man strapped onto a bench while a spike-covered demon inserts something very large into a much smaller orifice. “I saw that one in a porno. Some of the kinkier buggers are probably enjoying themselves.”

Aziraphale had watched a blue movie once in the nineteen-fifties. It hadn’t been anything like what was going on in the second circle. He shuddered. “Well, I don’t think that I should like to try any of that,” he said.

Crowley shrugged. “Didn’t say that I wanted to, I was just pointing out how mad humans are. Hell can’t come up with anything more depraved than what they do to themselves for pleasure.”

Aziraphale was a little relieved to hear it, but decided that if they managed to ever get out of here, he would have to have a conversation with Crowley about just where he drew the line, and it was definitely well before anything that could be used as a torture device under other circumstances. He was just glad that Anathema had chosen to stay behind. It was bad enough that Adam had to see any of that. Though, the boy didn’t seem all that bothered by it; he looked on in only mild fascination.

Young people these days. Sometimes Aziraphale felt like the only being left on Earth, over the age of fifteen, with a scrap of innocence left to preserve. He blamed the internet. Crowley claimed no credit, but the internet had to have been his doing.

Aziraphale resolutely pulled his gaze away and looked at his feet, keeping a firm grasp of Crowley’s hand, until the conveyor came to an end.

The walls of Dis rose before them. The entrance was guarded by a boom gate next to an open-topped booth, where a dark haired demon sat filling out paperwork. A three-headed Hellhound lay sleeping on a mound of human skulls nearby.

Dog gave a bark of greeting and went over to sniff at the lorry-sized hound. One of the three heads raised slightly, cracking open one glowing red eye, and then lowered again, dismissing the much smaller Hellhound.

“Get back here, Dog,” Adam commanded. “You and Cerberus can play later.”

Dog ignored him completely, and continued to pounce around, nipping at Cerberus’ ears, and trying to get his attention.

"Hey, Maalik. How's it hangin'?" Crowley asked the dark haired demon behind the desk.

"Crawly," he intoned. "How did you get in here?"

Crowley just pointed to Adam.

"I need to see Lucifer," Adam said.

"And who are you?"

"Adam Young."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Condescension dripped from Maalik’s words. 

"Are you new or something?" Adam asked.

"I have guarded the Gates of Dis since The Revolution. I keep human souls from escaping Hell; I don't let them walk in." He gave Adam a supercilious look, turning it on Crowley and Aziraphale. "I don't let in powerless traitors or zealots either."

"How about the Antichrist?" Crowley asked.

Another demon came up behind Maalik and whispered something in his ear. He gave Adam another assessing look. It was clear that Maalik didn't believe them, and that he suspected Crowley of being up to something.

Which, to be fair, he was. He was always up to something. That was the whole point. It was intrinsic to his nature.

Maalik seemed to decide that the whole thing was above his pay grade though, because he eventually bobbed an insultingly shallow bow at Adam and waved them inside. "Your father is in the Seventh Circle, sire."

Maalik waved a hand at the boom gate, and the bar rose slowly for them. 

Dog had finally managed to rouse Cerberus from his nap, and he was lying on his back, snapping up at him playfully, while the larger Hellhound pretended to rip his entrails out.

"C'mon Dog," Adam called, and both of the Hellhounds padded on behind them as they walked through the gate-- Cerberus barely managing to scrape through.

"Great," Crowley said. "Now there are two of them."

"Or is it four?" Aziraphale asked, eyeing up the extra heads. 

-*-

They crossed a footbridge over a river of boiling blood into the city proper. Demons moved through the streets, going about their business of bureaucracy and torture—sometimes both. Adam led the way with the two Hellhounds padding at the rear, but it was Aziraphale and Crowley that were drawing eyes to them.

Crowley pulled Aziraphale closer to him, and said, "Maybe we should have left you behind with Anathema."

"Don't be ridiculous," Aziraphale said. "I'm as capable as you are at the moment, and I wouldn't have let you go without me anyway."

"Whatever happens, I don't think it would be a good idea to let Adam out of our sight."

Crowley sounds scared, and that scares Aziraphale more than any of the myriad examples of pain and torture he'd witnessed since their descent. Despite the fact that Crowley had always spoken of Hell in a tone of distaste, a part of Aziraphale had always suspected that he would be in his element down in the pits: the same way that he was in the back rooms of rock concerts and in the seedier back alleys of Rome in the old days.

But, then, Crowley wasn't really afraid for himself; he was afraid for Aziraphale.

They made it through Dis without incident, but then they had to walk through the sixth circle.

"CRAWLY," a voice raged the moment they stepped through the gate.

A stench of excrement preceded him, as Hastur stalked toward them. He looked about to attack them, but Dog let out a low warning growl that was echoed a second later in three other much larger throats. A hot breeze of sulfuric breath ruffled their hair.

Hastur froze, looking at the Hellhounds, but he risked a snarl at Crowley. 

Crowley snarled right back. “Have you done something to my car?”

“You should be more worried about what I’ll do to you,” Hastur said.

“If you’ve laid a single finger on it, I’ll make what goes on in this place look like a fucking vacation.”

Hastur mouthed the word vacation in obvious confusion, which quickly turned to anger. "I'm going to skin you and make boots, serpent."

"And ruin this whole feculent vogue thing that you have going?” Crowley asked.

“I’m going to cut out your angel’s pretty blue eyes and make them into earrings.”

“Why can’t you just threaten to kill us?” Crowley asked. “Or torture if that’s your thing? What’s with all the arts and crafts?”

Hastur smiled. “I have a few new hobbies, Crawly. Perhaps you’d like me to show you?”

“As lovely as that sounds, I don’t have time to look at your macabre macramé. Get out of our way.”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Hastur said, taking a threatening step forward.

“Excuse me?” Crowley asked, disbelieving. “Did you miss the escort? Hellhounds? Antichrist?”

Hastur apparently hadn’t noticed Adam-- too busy holding a grudge over a little holy water to bother giving the boy more than a passing glance.

“Sire,” he said, voice dripping with barely restrained hatred. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Well, now you do,” Adam said, “get out of our way.”

“I don’t think that The Prince of Darkness is expecting you.”

“He isn’t,” Adam said.

“He won’t be pleased that-” Hastur started, but Adam cut him off.

“It isn’t for you to say what he will or will not be pleased about, demon. Step aside.”

“Of course.” Hastur kept his hateful gaze locked on Crowley as he moved out of their path. “This isn’t over, snake.”

“Oh, it really isn’t,” Crowley agreed.

“You don’t have any idea who you’re messing with, bub,” Aziraphale added helpfully, and Crowley winced.

“You really ought to stop by before you go, Crawley,” Hastur called after them. “I’ve been doing some really interesting things with metal sculpture.”

Crowley started to turn back, but Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder. “Later, when we have our powers back,” he said in a low voice. “You bring the plant mister, and I’ll bring the Holy Water.”

-*-

A highly improbable event is often equated to Hell freezing over. The origin of this particular adage can be traced back to a drunken conversation between Crowley and one Gaius Julius Caesar in 44BC.

“Brutus is like a brother to me,” Caesar had said. “He alone, I know that I can trust.”

To which Crowley had responded with a laugh. “Yeah, Brutus will betray you when Hell freezes over.”

Unfortunately for Caesar, as a benchmark of probability, subzero temperatures in the Ninth Circle of Hell can always be depended upon.

In the Fourth Ring of the Ninth Circle of Hell is a frozen lake. At its center, plunged waist-deep through the ice is the great three-headed giant Lucifer. Here, he gives special attention to only the greatest sinners.

At the moment, each of his three heads is gnashing a soul between its teeth. Judas Iscariot, Gaius Cassius Longinus, and, by coincidence, Marcus Junius Brutus are on today’s menu. Adolf Hitler, Leopold II of Belgium, and Thomas Edison are waiting in the wings.

For a moment, it looks as though Cerberus is attacking Lucifer, as the great three-headed hound lunges for the great three-headed beast. Lucifer drops the betrayers from his jaws, and wrestles Cerberus to the ice. After a short submission, he lets the dog up, and they spar again.  
Crowley and Aziraphale look on in shocked disbelief at the display of master and dog playing on the frozen lake. Adam does not look surprised in the least. 

“HEY!” he yells over the din, and his voice has an unnatural reverberation that drowns out all else.

Six heads turn to look at him, and Lucifer gently sets Cerberus onto the ice. “ADAM?”

A mist of fog rises up from the ice, and Lucifer is a quickly shrinking shape within. A moment later, the form of a man steps out of the haze, running his hands over the lapels of a crisp black suit. His hair is a mass of gleaming black curls. His eyes are dark pools, and his skin palest ivory. He has cheekbones that you could cut diamonds with, and lips like a cupid’s bow. 

He had always been beautiful, The Morningstar, it had been his downfall.

“Adam,” he says-- his voice like melting chocolate, like the soft brush of velvet, like deep rich honey, and every other cliché in the book that is meant to mean sex-on-legs in auditory form. “I didn’t know you were coming. I was working.” 

He reaches out to put a hand on the Adam’s shoulder, but Adam takes a step back.

“I can see that.” Adam’s voice is cold. It is hard to be anything else in the Ninth Circle. “Have time for a chat?”


	9. Chapter 9

Whatever the legions of the damned want you to think, Hell is not a bottomless pit. If you go down through the Nine Circles and all of their rings, you do eventually come to a bottom.

In the very lowest pit of Hell, you will find the residence of Lucifer Morningstar. It's a round palatial building with a flat, red roof. There are really nice wrought iron balconies, and marble staircases, and comfortable worn-in leather furniture. The leather isn't even made from human skins or anything. Adam had his own room for his occasional visits. Well, a suite really. It was nice.

Lucifer had sent them there to wait while he rearranged his schedule to make time for them.

The problem with this was that they were waiting in Lucifer’s library. It was a large collection, several times bigger than Aziraphale’s, but you wouldn’t find a single one of these volumes on the shelves of Fell Books. This library was filled with all the books written by damned human souls after their deaths. Aziraphale hadn’t spared a glance for Crowley since they’d entered, and now he was beginning to worry that Aziraphale was about to switch sides.

Crowley had always enjoyed tempting the angel, but he'd never truly meant it. He just thought that Aziraphale was a lot more interesting with a patina of wickedness over all of his goodness-- much in the same way that Crowley was more interesting with a patina of good. The others, the demons and angels that never thought to question God or Lucifer, were all so boring. Crowley had never wanted to be a mindless follower. That's why he'd rebelled in the first place. You just couldn't have a stimulating conversation with a zealot. But after the dust had settled over God and Lucifer's big row, he'd found that Hell wasn't much better. Hell was just as full of mindless sheep as Heaven was; they just had a different shepherd. So, Crowley had never actually wanted Aziraphale to _fall_ ; the angel would never have made it in Hell, and he certainly wouldn’t be happy there anymore than Crowley was. He'd just wanted to tempt him a little bit, only enough to keep things interesting. And, as much as he'd made a good show of protest, he was fine with Aziraphale's divine influence. He had morals. He was against killing kids. Acts of violence in general turned his stomach. He didn't even feel comfortable littering. The Bentley was a zero emissions vehicle, since he'd only put petrol in it that once-- to get the free bullet-hole decals.

The point was that Crowley did not want Aziraphale to ever _actually_ become a demon. He liked Aziraphale just as he was. But now, they were in Lucifer's bloody library, and Aziraphale may have found his own little slice of Heaven in the deepest pit of Hell. All bets were off.

"Don’t touch any of those," Crowley said, even as he went to the bar in the corner and began to pour himself a drink.

"Have you seen this?" Aziraphale asked in wonder. "He has thirty-nine new Shakespeare plays here, and twelve novels from Oscar Wilde, and look there's a new Proust." He pulled a volume down from the shelf.

"I've been telling you for years that Hell gets all the best writers. _Please_ , put that back."

Aziraphale made a disappointed noise, but he did slide the book back into its space on the shelf. "You didn't tell me that they were creating new work."

Crowley waved a hand. "It's all about pain and suffering. Nothing you'd want to read. _T_ rust _me_."

Aziraphale ran a hand over the spines longingly. "Still…"

"Sit down, angel."

“Do you think he’d notice if I just took a couple?” Aziraphale asked.

“I told you that he was a book thief,” Adam said. He was pacing by the big window looking over the lake.

“Well, is it really wrong, if you’re stealing from the Devil?” Aziraphale ask.

“Is it still murder if you kill a murderer?” Crowley countered.

Aziraphale frowned. “Well, yes, I suppose that it is.”

Crowley tipped his glass to him, and went over to sprawl into one of the couches at the center of the room. “Just don’t piss him off.”

“He does have a bit of a temper,” Adam said.

“He seemed nice enough,” Aziraphale argued. “I never met him before. I’m just a principality, _was_ just a principality. I didn’t really get a chance to hang around with the upper echelons.”

Crowley snorted. “Trust an angel to try to find redeeming qualities in The Lord of Darkness. Believe me; he wasn’t exactly a model angel, even before God threw him down. He’s always had a short fuse. One temper tantrum with the Almighty too many, and here we are.”

“He’s coming,” Adam said from the window. “Just let me handle him when he gets here; I know how to deal with his moods.”

Lucifer sauntered into the room a moment later, joyfully energetic. “Oh, Adam, I’m so very happy that you decided to stop by. I just wish that you had told me that you were coming so that I could have had my schedule cleared earlier. We’ve been having some staffing issues, and it’s been a bit hellish down here lately, if you’ll excuse the pun.”

He cast a glance over to where Aziraphale had frozen by the bookshelves. "Do feel free to borrow anything you like," he said with a charming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I don’t think we’ve met, but any friend of Adam's is a friend of mine.”

He extended a hand to Aziraphale, “I doubt I need to introduce myself, but you may call me Lucifer.”

“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale said, polite sensibilities warring with years of angelic duty, as he shook The Devil’s hand.

Lucifer held the hand tight for longer than a natural handshake as he said. “Ah, aren’t you the angel that has been assigned to Earth? I suppose that would explain how you know my son.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said.

Lucifer released Aziraphale’s hand, and stepped very close to him to reach over his shoulder and take a bound folio down from the shelf. He handed it to Aziraphale. “Shakespeare's _Anguish of The Seventh Circle_ ,” he explained. “It’s one of my favorites. Some of my guys down in Beastley Torments put on a production last year. The bit with the hot pokers was inspired."

Aziraphale took the play with less eagerness than he’d had a moment ago. “Yes, thank you,” he said in a quiet little voice.

"You’re quite welcome," Lucifer said.

As soon as he turned his back and gave his attention back over to his son, Aziraphale moved quickly away from him and took a seat next to Crowley on the couch, setting the folio gingerly on a side table as though it might catch fire at any moment.

“How is school?” Lucifer asked Adam, while he made himself a drink.

“It's fine," Adam said.

"What are you studying?"

"I haven't quite decided yet," Adam said. "I'm leaning toward paleontology."

Lucifer choked. "Paleontology? That's… interesting."

"I've always liked dinosaurs."

" _Dinosaurs_ , yes well,” Lucifer gave him a tight smile. “They do have a lot of sharp teeth, and… claws. I don't suppose you've considered criminal justice, or politics, perhaps?"

"Naw. If I don’t do paleontology, I might have a go at ecology."

"I see that Dog is doing well," Lucifer said, changing the subject. "You should bring him around to play with Cerberus a bit more often. They get on so well."

"I bring him to the dog park," Adam said. "I think he's in love with the neighbor's Wolfhound."

" _Love,_ " Lucifer repeated. "Of course." He took a large drink from his glass. "How long do you think you'll be staying? I can have rooms made up for your … _friends_."

"We aren't staying. We just came so that I could ask you to give Crowley his powers back."

Lucifer turned to Crowley, looking confused. "Crowley? I knew that you looked familiar. You've lost your power? I didn’t realize that you were still alive.”

"You don't know?" Crowley asked. "Beelzebub had all the paperwork. It had your signature on it."

"Well, I don't get a chance to read everything that crosses my desk. That's how delegation works. I'm certain that everything is in order. But, I’m sure that you were scheduled to be executed some years ago."

"I was sentenced to a bath of Holy Water," Crowley said. "The punishment was executed. I'm certain that all the paperwork is in order."

"I see," Lucifer said, though clearly he didn’t.

"Look,” Adam said. “Crowley didn't do anything wrong. Can you just reinstate him or whatever? He can't function without his powers, and I need to get back to school."

"Well, I would," Lucifer said, "since it’s you asking. But, if he isn't a demon anymore, there isn't a lot that I can do."

"What do you mean?" Adam asked. "You're Satan. Just make him a demon again."

"I can't. Only God can make demons. You piss off the Almighty, He tosses you down here, and then you're a demon. That's how it works. If Crowley isn't a demon anymore, then I don't know what he is."

"Well, he isn't a human either. Death said that he didn't have a soul."

"Of course not," Lucifer said. "Only humans have souls."

"I don't have one either," Adam said.

" _Only humans have souls_ ," Lucifer repeated like Adam was an idiot.

"So, if I have a mortal body, but no immortal soul, what happens when I die?" Adam asked.

"Your spirit descends to Hell and you help me to run things, obviously."

"So, I have a spirit, but no soul, and you think that I'm going to help you run _Hell_? You know that I'm never going to do that, right?"

"You won't have a choice in the matter." Lucifer drained off his scotch. "I didn't."

"Of course I have a choice," Adam argued. "I just won't do it."

Lucifer sighed. "I'm trying to be accepting of your… lifestyle choices, but you're going to have to grow up eventually and face your responsibilities."

"I don't have any responsibility to Hell. I didn't get thrown out of Heaven. I've never even been to Heaven. I was born on Earth. I'm human."

"You weren't born on Earth," Lucifer said, "and you aren't human. You don't have a soul. You are a part of my spirit that I sent to Earth to corrupt humanity and bring about Armageddon." His voice had deepened and taken on an unnatural tone in his anger.

"Because, that _traitor_ ," he pointed to Crowley, "fucked up, you were sent to the wrong humans, and got all these _ideas_. I thought that maybe with a soft touch you could be persuaded to see sense in time. I see that I was wrong."

"So, you aren't going to help us then," Adam concluded.

"Oh, I'm going to help you all right. I'm going to help you see the error of your ways. There won't be any Degree in Stupid-Humans-Who-Can't-Take-A-Joke for you. You will remain in Hell until you learn your place, and then _maybe_ , in a few thousand years, I'll let you back up to stir up some trouble and cause the Armageddon that you were intended for."

"You can't keep me here," Adam said.

"GO TO YOUR ROOM," Lucifer bellowed.

Adam tried to fight it, but a blast of power sent him flying out of the library.

"I hate to get in the way of family disagreements," Aziraphale said, grabbing Crowley's wrist and tugging him toward the door.

"Oh, don't worry, I have a special place in Hell for the two of you," Lucifer said with a cruel smile.

 


	10. Chapter 10

"I don't suppose that you have any bright ideas on how to get out of this one?" Aziraphale muttered.

Two huge demons, one with the head of a boar and the other with a large horn protruding out of his face, were leading them back up through the circles toward Dis-- presumably to some pocket of Hell reserved special for people who managed to piss off the Lord of Darkness personally.

"This was Adam's big master plan, don't blame me. We could have stayed back at the bookshop and fucked our way merrily toward the grave."

Aziraphale grimaced. "You know I don't like using that word for the act of lovemaking."

"Making love is for 17th century damsels, and 21st century Twilight fans. I don't make love, I… wait do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Shhh," Crowley cocked his head to listen better. "It sounds like…" He grinned.

"Hey, you two! Rocksteady and Beebop!" Crowley called to their guards.

The demons turned, lowering their pikes to point at Crowley.

"Shut up," the boar-headed demon said.

"Keep moving," the other added.

"Have you two ever heard of Harry Houdini?"

"Who?" Boar-head asked.

"He's the greatest human wizard that ever lived. He could escape from any fetters. Locked and chained upside down in a vat of water, he could dematerialize and reappear safe and sound on solid ground."

"Where are you going with this?" Aziraphale whispered.

"My friend here learned all of his magic," Crowley told them, ignoring Aziraphale. "If you let us go free, he can show you the secret to his powers. You would be the most powerful demons in Hell."

"Tell us the secret, or I'll cut your guts out," Horn-face demanded, pointing his pike at Aziraphale.

"You have to let us go free, and then he'll show you, that's the deal," Crowley said.

"No deal," Boar-head grunted. "Show us now, or we will hurt you."

"You're going to hurt us anyway," Aziraphale pointed out.

"Yeah, but we were going to wait. Tell us, or we do it now."

"You'll have to tell them, angel."

"I don't-" Aziraphale started to protest.

"We'll need some ropes," Crowley continued on over him. "They'll have to be Gleipnir ropes to prove that he isn't just using ordinary angelic magic to escape."

The demons exchanged a look, and then Boar-head started rummaging around in his belt pouch.

"Oh, I have some," Horn-face grumbled, digging it out and handing the rope over to Crowley. "Tie him up then."

"What are you doing, dear?" Aziraphale asked through clenched teeth, while Crowley tied his hands together.

"Just go with it, angel."

Against vehement protests, Crowley had occasionally played stand-in as Aziraphale's magician's assistant. He still remembered all the knots.

"I haven't done this in ages," Aziraphale complained.

Crowley ignored him. "I need a handkerchief as well."

Boar-head pulled out a dirty snot-covered rag, and blew his nose with it before handing it over.

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. "Oh, please, don't," he said as Crowley unfolded it and laid it over his hands. "That's disgusting."

"Now, we just count down from fifty," Crowley went on.

" _Fifty_ ," Aziraphale squeaked. "I told you, I haven't-"

"50," Crowley started, "49... 48..."

The two demons joined in.

"Oh, for Heaven’s sake," Aziraphale grumbled. "Fine then."

The demons continued to count while Aziraphale visibly struggled to beat the clock, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. 

"9... 8…7…" The demons counted.

"Are you going to make it there, angel?" Crowley asked through clenched teeth.

"I've almost… Just… Yeah… There."

"3… 2… 1…"

"Tadaa!" Aziraphale exclaimed, throwing his arms up in a flourish of jazz hands.

Aziraphale grinned at the incredulous look on the demons' faces. He'd never had such a receptive audience.

"How'd he do that?" Horn-face demanded.

"Yeah, show us the secret."

"It's mostly the Tadaa at the end," Crowley admitted, "but there's a bit more to it. Here let me tie you up, and he can show you."

Aziraphale watched in dumbstruck disbelief as both of the demons handed him their pikes and held their hands out for Crowley to tie them together with rope that couldn't be broken with magic or blade.

"Actually, Crowley," Aziraphale said when he'd finished, figuring that it couldn't hurt. "It's easier to do the feet to start with."

"Right," Crowley agreed. "Good idea."

For a wonder, both guards stood perfectly still, eager grins on their faces, while Crowley tied their feet together.

"There, perfect," Crowley said. "Now just start counting down from fifty."

"What about the handkerchief?" Horn-face asked.

"Ah, of course," Crowley said, picking it up with a look of disgust and tearing it in half to lay one side over the hands of each of the demons.

He walked over to Aziraphale while they started their count.

"Now what?" Aziraphale asked, handing him one of the pikes.

"This way," Crowley said, walking off across the ring.

"Hey, where are you going?" Horn-face called after them.

"Get back here!" Boar-head demanded.

Aziraphale and Crowley walked away to the sound of furious counting.

"How is it that they can be so very stupid?" Aziraphale asked.

"Most demons are," Crowley said. "It's how they ended up here in the first place."

"Well, we're free, and we're armed, but we're still in Hell, and we can't just leave Adam here. So, what do we do now?"

"Don't you hear that?" Crowley asked.

Now that Aziraphale listened, he did think that he could hear something. It was getting louder, but he still couldn't quite make it out, just a faint beat in the distance. "What is that?" he asked.

"Brian May," Crowley said with a grin.

 -*-

They followed the music further into the Seventh Circle, keeping to the rock overhang at the edge of the ring as they worked their way closer.

"I want to break free," Freddie Mercury sang out as they rounded a rocky outcrop. "I want to breeeeaak freeee."

Crowley froze in front of Aziraphale as they came to the edge of a new pocket. "Oh, my beautiful darling, what have they done to you?”

"What?" Aziraphale asked. "I'm fine. I mean, a bit peckish maybe, but-" He looked over Crowley's shoulder. "Oh, you're talking to the car. I should have known."

The Bentley sat on a plinth in the center of the pocket. Its paint was scorched and peeling. A demon whacked away at the back window with a club, shattering glass, while others looked on and jeered.

“What do you-” Aziraphale started, but then Crowley was screaming in rage and running into the pocket. Aziraphale hesitated for only a moment before he ran after him.

“GET AWAY FROM MY CAR!” Crowley bellowed, as he stabbed his pike into the demon with the club while _I Want to Break Free_ blasted from the Bentley.

The demon crumpled, club falling from his limp fingers just as Aziraphale caught up. Crowley spun, putting Aziraphale between his back and the passenger door, as he swung his pike around in an arc. “Who wants it next,” Crowley demanded. “How many mint condition 1926 Bentleys do you think are on the road, you cretins? How dare you? This is _my_ car.”

The demons exchanged glances and elbowed each other, but no one stepped forward.

“Get in, angel,” Crowley growled, still swinging his pike and radiating anger.

Aziraphale decided that it was best to just do as he was told, and got in.

Crowley walked around to the driver’s side, assessing the damages as he went. “I’m going to find a water truck and a priest and come back down here with a bloody fire hose. You’re all going to melt into so much ectoplasmic demon goo, and I’m going to laugh while you scream.”

The demons waited until he carefully placed his pike in the back seat, so as not to damage the upholstery, and got in, before they decided that they probably should do something to stop them.

Crowley turned the key as the demons swarmed the car, but nothing happened.

The needle of the gas gauge was, of course, on zero.

“Fuck.” Crowley tried the key again. The engine didn’t even try to turn over. He pounded on the steering wheel. “Come on, start. Please start. You’re better than this. You’ve been rolling along the highways of Earth for a hundred years. You’ve survived German Bombs. You’ve driven through the fires of Odegra to stop Armageddon. _You don’t need petrol_. You’ve never needed petrol. You’re a clean burning, wheel turning, piston pumping, work of art. Just start, and I promise you, I will make sure that each and every single demon in Hell knows my wrath, because no one fucks with my car. In a century, there has never been another car made that could compare to you. You are _MY CAR._ ”

The engine roared to life with a fury that Hell had never known. The opening bassline for _Another One Bites the Dust_ pounded out from the Bentley like the heartbeat of a living beast.

“YES!” Crowley yelled in triumph.

As soon as the engine started, the demons had backed off, but another figure stood in front of the Bentley.

“What are you going to do, Crawly?” Hastur yelled. “You’ll never make it out of Hell alive.”

Crowley grabbed the wheel in both hands and put the pedal to the floor. The tires screeched, and the car slammed into Hastur like a tank. There was a satisfying crunch. Crowley shifted into reverse and rolled over him again, just for good measure.

 

_Are you happy, are you satisfied?_

_How long can you stand the heat?_

 

They mowed down every demon that got in their way, as the peeling paint spread over the car and healed, the shattered glass flew back into a perfect rear window, and the chrome gleamed.

Aziraphale held tightly to his own knees, eyes wide in terror, as Crowley screamed out his exultant triumph, and the Bentley sped deeper into Hell.

 

_There are plenty of ways you can hurt a man_

_And bring him to the ground_

_You can beat him, you can cheat, him, you can_

_Treat him bad_

_And leave him when he’s down, yeah_

_But I’m ready, yes I’m ready for you_

_I’m standing on my own two feet_

_Out of the doorway the bullets rip_

_Repeating to the sound of the beat_

_Oh yeah_

 

The music abruptly stopped, and an enraged voice shouted out through the nonexistent speakers.

“CRAWLY! CRAWLY! DON’T THINK YOU’RE GOING TO GET AWAY WITH THIS.”

“Get rid of that, will you?” Crowley asked the Bentley.

There was a moment of silence, and then

 

 _Oh_  
The machine of a dream, such a clean machine  
With the pistons a pumpin', and the hubcaps all gleam  
When I'm holding your wheel  
All I hear is your gear  
With my hand on your grease gun  
Mmm, it's like a disease, son  
I'm in love with my car, gotta feel for my automobile  
Get a grip on my boy racer roll bar  
Such a thrill when your radials squeal

“I’m worried that you may have an unhealthy relationship with your car,” Aziraphale said, but he didn’t say it very loudly.

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

The moment that Adam hit his bed, he threw himself upright and hurried to the door. He made it about halfway down the stairs before he felt himself being lifted into the air and sped through the house once more to land again on the bed. This time the door slammed shut behind him. When he tried to open it a second time, it was locked tight.

"You can't keep me here!" he screamed.

A crashing noise echoed through the house, and Adam flopped back down on the bed.

He'd been in this situation before. Lucifer would throw an epic temper tantrum, destroy half the house, scream at his subordinates, and then, when he'd run himself out, he'd come to Adam and act like nothing had happened and it was all happy families.

It was just one of the many reasons that Adam hated coming to Hell. Torture and torment were bad and all, but he supposed that it all served a purpose. Dealing with his father's childish temper was just one step too far.

If it weren't for Crowley and Aziraphale, he'd just wait out the storm like usual, but Hell only knew what kind of torments Lucifer had thought up for his erstwhile demon and the angel that had thwarted his war. Not that any of it had really been their fault. They had helped of course, but mostly it had been Adam; they'd just been along for the ride. Yet, here Adam was, grounded to a lavish suite with all the comforts that a young man could ask for, while Aziraphale and Crowley were being punished for whatever sins Hell could pin on them-- chewed away over and over again in the frozen rings of the Ninth Circle as traitors, or subjected to whatever nasty BDSM shit was going on in the Second Circle for the sin of lust. Adam didn't like to think.

He had to get out of here and put a stop to it. 

What power he had on Earth, whilst not in the midst of a world-ending Armageddon, was limited to his own direct sphere of influence-- perhaps a ten mile radius of wherever he was at the moment. It was stronger in Tadfield, perhaps because it was a world that he had built for himself long before he even knew what he was doing, and it was stronger with people that he'd known for a long time. Still, he rarely put it to any use. He kept the developers away from Tadfield. He occasionally made his parents forget his misdeeds-- at least after he felt that he'd been appropriately punished for his latest transgression. He sometimes used it to get his friends to go along with his crazier plans, but only because he knew that they'd have more fun if they did. Mostly he just used it to impress girls with the newest incarnation of the Citroen. If he ever managed to get out of Hell and back to Oxford, he'd probably use it to get his professors to forgive his truancy and late assignments-- maybe even bump his grades up a bit. Really, that was only fair reward for having to deal with the things he'd seen this week, and he wasn't talking about Hell. If he could use his power to scrub his own memories of all the times he'd walked in to find his godfathers doing a lot more than just canoodling over the last few days, he wouldn't hesitate for an instant. He was never sitting on that couch again. That wasn’t even counting the poorly disguised pornographic statue passing itself off as "art" in Crowley's front hall. He'd scrub his eyeballs out with bleach if it meant getting that image out of his head.

But, anyway, that was Earth; this was Hell. Here, Adam's power was all encompassing. There were no limits, save one; he could not, in any way, oppose Lucifer. He could rearrange Hell in any way that he desired, as long as his shit-show of a sperm-donor, _spirit-donor, whatever_ , allowed it. Which was all well and good if he felt like designing horrendous torments for the souls consigned to the pits, or if he wanted to create some new hell beast, but did absolutely nothing to help him get out of this room.

If he wanted to get out of here, he was going to have to convince Lucifer to let him out, which wasn't exactly easy when he was locked in his room and Lucifer was destroying his house in a murderous rage-- like a damn toddler. He felt like that girl in that Disney film-- the one with the talking furniture. All he needed was a butter-yellow gown and well… a lot more daddy issues than he already had.

He tried to put that thought out of his mind as he concentrated on every television and radio in the house and felt them click on in his head.

"Enough of this," he thought. "Let me out so that we can talk like adults." He heard the faint echo of his words coming from every speaker in the house.

"WOULD YOU PREFER THE PITS?" Lucifer's voice radiated from the walls themselves. "I HAVE A SPECIAL PLACE FOR TREACHEROUS SONS. THERE'S A PLACE FOR EVERYONE IN HELL."

Adam sighed. "Stop being dramatic. Let me out, and maybe we can find a compromise."

"THE TIME FOR COMPROMISES IS OVER."

"Yeah," Adam thought. "This is the time for smashing everything and acting like a spoiled child." He realized too late that he hadn't bothered to shield the thought from his impromptu p.a. system when he heard it echoed through the house.

There was another loud crash, rather proving his point, but he managed to shield that thought at least.

"What are you hoping to accomplish with this? You can force compliance, but that doesn't make me compliant."

"I CAN BREAK YOU DOWN UNTIL THE DIFFERENCE DOESN'T MATTER."

"He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is careful to discipline him," Adam said. "That's one of _His_ isn't it? Proverbs 13:24. Spare the rod; spoil the child. Something like that?"

"I--" Lucifer faltered and Adam could almost feel the hit. He'd read the good book cover to cover a few times now, mostly to see where he might fit into the ineffable plan, but there had been precious little to learn. He had found it very useful for quoting passages at Lucifer to win arguments though.

He pressed his advantage.

"And what torments do you have for me, father? Do you have a crucifix set aside for your only son?"

There was a long pause, and when the answer came it was in a much calmer and more subdued tone.

"Come downstairs."

The lock on the door clicked open.

Adam wasn't quite sure what to expect when he walked into his father's study. The scale of destruction might've been anywhere between a post-football match pub fight and a small atomic bomb, but whatever it _had_ been, Lucifer had set everything back to rights before Adam got there.

The Lord of Darkness sat calmly in one leather armchair with a glass of amber liquid resting in his hand against the arm rest.

Adam stood just inside the door and waited.

"Sit down," Lucifer said, his voice once more deep and measured. "I owe you an apology."

Adam sat on the edge of the adjacent armchair. "I'm listening."

Lucifer hesitated. "We are more alike than you might like to admit. It may be… unfair of me to fault you for something that might as well be your birthright.”

“Explain,” Adam said.

“Let me put it another way,” Lucifer said with a smile. “Rebelling against authority figures rather runs in the family.”

“I see.”

“I rule in Hell because the idea of an all-knowing God never sat well with me. Having a creator that doesn’t bother to consider the point of view of others is something that I can understand well. God accused me of pride when I questioned Him, accused me of vanity when I suggested that I might know more about anything than _He_ did, and accused me of coveting power when I dared to defy Him. For these supposed transgressions, I was thrown down. Exiled from Heaven, I was given the task of punishing others as I was being punished.”

Lucifer let out a long sigh. “And yet, I create the same restrictions for you, and act surprised when you defy me.”

 _Surprised_ wasn’t exactly the word that Adam would have used, but he knew better than to say so.

“For this, I apologize,” Lucifer said, “but it does not change the situation. When your time on the mortal world ends, your spirit will return here. And, it will end; your body is very much human, even if your spirit is not. When that happens, I suppose you’ll have a choice to make, and I would suggest that you make the best of it.”

Adam bit his lip. “It isn’t fair for me to be punished for something that you did either,” he said.

“Perhaps not, but that isn’t my doing.”

Adam nodded slowly.

“I would rather that you learned to share in my responsibilities, but if you refuse, then I suppose there will be time enough later. An eternity, in fact, unless you change your mind about bringing about Armageddon.”

“I won’t,” Adam said. “Humanity doesn’t deserve to host your battlefield. If you need to have your war, why don’t you have it on Mars or something? That seems like a better place for that sort of thing. The name is even right.”

“I don’t make the rules,” Lucifer said.

“You just enforce them,” Adam finished. “Right, well, do you mind letting my godfathers go free, then?”

Lucifer cringed. “Godfathers?”

Adam shrugged. “It’s what they call themselves. I was never actually baptized. Not sure what would have happened if anyone had tried. Back when Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee thought that Warwick kid was the Antichrist, they decided to see to his spiritual upbringing. Once they figured out the mix-up, they transferred their attentions to me. Mostly, I just get extra presents on my birthday. Every once in a while, they decide that they haven’t been giving me enough attention, and they make some kind of effort to make it up to me, and I get dragged around London for theatre shows and fancy dinners. I don’t think either one of them has ever tried to offer religious counsel.”

Lucifer was frowning, but he said. “I suppose that’s all right then.”

“So, you’ll let them go?”

“Yes,” he said, though Adam could tell that he didn’t want to. The corner of his eye was twitching.

“And you’ll give Crowley his powers back,” Adam prodded.

“I already told you that I can’t.”

“Above your pay grade?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Lucifer said through gritted teeth. “Only God can make angels. Only angels can be exiled from Hell to become demons. It really has nothing to do with me. I just manage new personnel. I don’t create them.”

“But, you’re the one who took his powers away,” Adam protested.

“I exiled him from Hell,” Lucifer disagreed. “If he isn’t working for Hell, then he isn’t a demon. I don’t know what he is now, but he isn’t one of mine, so I have no control over him.”

“I understand,” Adam said, not really understanding at all, and thinking that if he really wanted to remake the world in his image, then maybe Hell would be a good place to start-- which, he supposed, was what Lucifer had been trying to get him to do this whole time.

This whole quest had been a monumental waste of time. Maybe Crowley was right about his plans being rubbish.

“So, we’re good then?” Adam asked.

The Prince of Darkness raised an eyebrow.

Adam smirked. “Okay, poor word choice, but we’re cool?"

“In the Ninth Circle? Always.”

Adam laughed. “Yeah, I guess Hell hath truly frozen over.”

Lucifer didn’t get the reference. He would have asked for clarification, but he was distracted by a noise outside. “What is that?”

Adam cocked his head to listen and smiled. “Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me.”

“What?”

“Freddie Mercury.”

“Who?”

Adam frowned. “Don’t you have him? I thought this is where they sent all the gays?”

“Gays?”

“Gays,” Adam repeated, “homosexuals, men who have sex with other men.”

“Oh.” Lucifer’s face twisted and he rocked one hand from side to side. “That’s a bit of a grey area. We don’t actually care, but it depends on shifting morality-- mostly, whether or not the person _thinks_ it’s a sin.”

“Ah,” Adam said. “That’s good then. People should be able to love whoever they want.” He got to his feet. “He was too good for your lot anyway.”

Adam walked toward the door while Lucifer looked on in confusion. “Anyway, that’ll be my ride, I expect.”

Before Lucifer could protest or change his mind, he left. He was just getting to the end of the path that led to the frozen lake when the Bentley came skidding around the corner, drifting on the ice, and blasting _Bohemian Rhapsody_ loud enough to rattle the glass in the windowpanes of the unholy residence.

Dog came running around the house at the same time, bounding through the snow to reach Adam’s side.  The Bentley skidded to a halt in front of them, the volume of the music lowered, and the driver’s side window rolled down.

“Need a lift?” Crowley asked, a manic glint in his slitted eyes.

“Yeah,” Adam said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Heh,” Crowley grinned. “Get out, and let them in, angel”

Aziraphale seemed to have trouble getting all of his limbs to work properly, and he was a bit shaky on his feet when he got out of the car so that Adam and Dog could get into the back.

“You okay?” Adam asked.

“It’s been a… an eventful afternoon.”

“Buck up, angel,” Crowley said. “We aren’t out of this yet.”

Adam and Dog clambered into the back seat, but before Aziraphale could fold the seat back and get in himself, the front door to the house had banged open, and Lucifer was striding towards them. Aziraphale made an alarmed little squeak at the sight of the Lord of Darkness baring down on them, and hurried to get in and slam the door closed.

“Go, Crowley. Go!” he said in a panic.

“Hang on a sec,” Adam said.

Lucifer looked more confused than angry as he approached the car. “How did this get down here?” he asked.

“Might want to talk to Hastur,” Crowley told him, “if you can find all the pieces, that is.”

“Hastur? Find all the…? ADAM, WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”

Adam leaned forward so that he could look out the window. “Honestly, I have no idea, but I’m just going to go with it. It’s Crowley and the Bentley; it’s all… you know…”

“Ineffable,” Aziraphale suggested with a bemused huff of air.

“Yeah, that’s it, ineffable,” Adam said. “Anyway, see you around, Pops.”

Crowley figured that was as good an exit line as he was likely to get, and he put the pedal to the floor. The wheels spun on the ice for an embarrassingly long time before the tread caught enough friction and they lurched away across the frozen lake.

“ _Pops_ ,” Lucifer repeated, a little smile on his face as he watched them drive away.

 

_Anyway the wind blows._

“So,” Aziraphale said. “Do either of you have a plan for how we’re going to actually drive this car out of here? Is there a back entrance that I don’t know about, a literal _highway to Hell_?”

“I might be able to help with that,” Adam said and snapped his fingers.

A Bentley sized hole opened up in the ice ahead of them. Crowley slammed on the brakes and barely avoided it, as the Bentley did a 360 and came to a stop, hard, facing the huge hole in the ice from the other direction.

“Huh,” Adam said when Aziraphale had stopped screaming.

“What do you mean, huh?” Crowley demanded.

“Well, I was trying to open up a portal to Earth. I suppose that’s it.”

“You _suppose_.”

“You’ll have to drive in to find out.”

“Want to run that by me again?”

“It-”

“So help me, Adam Young,” Crowley said, “if you say it’s an excellent plan…”

“Well, no, I was going to say that it should come out back in London. This is a terrible plan.”

“Yup,” Crowley agreed, “but… _historically_ , those are the ones that usually work out for us. He gripped the steering wheel and nodded to himself. “Well, my love, I think this calls for some mood music, what have you got for us?”

 _“Tonight, I'm gonna have myself a real good time_ ,” sang the non-existent speakers.

“Don’t stop me now,” Crowley agreed. “Hang on, angel.”

And, with that, he drove the Bentley into the icy abyss.

 -*-

There weren’t any reports that Thursday of an antique 1926 Bentley surfacing from the duck pond in St. James’s Park and driving up onto the bank.

This was partially because most people wouldn’t be able to identify the model year of any given classic Bentley that just happened to roll on out of the muck, containing three somewhat terrified and very damp passengers and one improbably large and very happy dog, but mostly it was because no one would have believed them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Crowley and Aziraphale were back on the couch. This time, Adam sat on the floor with his back resting against it and Dog’s head in his lap.

Morale was low.

They were all wet, exhausted, and miserable-- apart from Dog who had had a truly marvelous day. He’d gotten to play with Cerberus; he’d ridden in a car and hadn’t even ended up at the veterinarian's office, and he’d gotten to chase some ducks. In the world of Dog, everything was coming up aces. The others weren’t quite as inclined to look on the sunny side. Aziraphale was sniffling and sneezing every few minutes, and Adam didn’t even want to consider what a nightmare he would be if he came down with a cold. Crowley was seething over how difficult it was going to be to get the smell of duck poop out of the Bentley’s upholstery. Adam just wanted to go back to school and wipe his hands of this whole mess. He’d tried. He’d failed. Crowley and Aziraphale were just going to have to suck it up and be mostly-human. Seven billion other people managed it every day.

“I don’t suppose you have any other excellent plans?” Crowley asked.

“I’m out of plans,” Adam said. “Excellent plans. Terrible plans. I’m done.”

“We should try to call Anathema,” Aziraphale said. “She might still be waiting at the main entrance.”

Crowley raised a hand and then seemed to lose the energy for even that, and let it fall limply back to the couch. “She’ll figure it out. She’s supposed to be a witch.”

“Still,” Aziraphale said. “It’s only polite.”

“I don’t think Miss Manners ever had anything to say about the social etiquette of informing one’s accomplices of your return from unproductive trips into the underworld,” Crowley said.

“Total waste of time,” Adam moaned, “and I have a test on the French Revolution tomorrow.”

“That one’s easy,” Crowley said. “We were there. It was just a bunch of peasants getting carried away and cutting off lots of people’s heads very efficiently with a big head cutting machine… and Aziraphale, who only wanted some crepes.”

“You’re never going to let me live that down are you?” Aziraphale asked. “And, I think they expect a bit more than that at the Oxford level.”

“Nope,” Adam said. “That’s what I’m putting in for the essay questions. If they don’t give me a passing grade, I’ll just produce my eyewitnesses. I saw a film about that once.” Adam yawned. “Had an American T.A.R.D.I.S. and that guy from the Matrix. There’s an idea. We could just turn the Bentley into a time machine. I saw a film about that too. Just turn the Bentley into a time machine, and go back in time before the whole Armageddon thing, and,” another yawn, “don’t have sex with your mother.”

“That was Oedipus,” Aziraphale put in helpfully.

“What?” Adam asked.

“Oedipus,” Aziraphale said again. “He was the one who slept with his mother.” He sneezed. “Then he cut his eyes out.”

“Right,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “We just turn the Bentley into a time-machine, go back in time and tell Oedipus, ‘look listen, Ed. Don’t sleep with your dad and have sex with your mum. Er... sleep with your mum and have sex with your dad… or _whatever_ , both. Don’t go killing and murdering anyone to have sex with members of your own family, or you’ll end up wandering around going “where have my eyes gone,” and you’ll look like a right twat.’ Great. Glad we have that settled then. Excellent plan, Adam.” He patted Adam on the top of his shaggy curls.

“To be fair, he didn’t know she was his mother at the time,” Aziraphale said. “That was the reason for the bit with the eyes.”

“Glad we cleared that up,” Crowley said.

“Are we really not going to call Anathema?” Aziraphale persisted.

“My mobile got wet going through the portal, and I haven’t convinced British Telecom to reinstate your service yet,” Adam said. “If she hasn’t turned up by tomorrow, I’ll drive over there and make sure she isn’t still waiting for us.”

“Couldn’t you just,” Aziraphale waved his hand feebly. “Dry it out.”

“I can’t even raise my head right now. We should all get some sleep.”

“Can’t sleep,” Crowley said. “We need to come up with a new plan first.”

“It’s your turn. I already had a plan,” Adam protested. “Not my fault you need to go taking the piss. Bentley time-machine. 1.21 gigwatts. Might need to sweet-talk the electric company for that kind of output though. ‘Specially with your payment history.” He yawned. “I’m going to sleep.”

He groaned as he got stiffly to his feet, Dog not at all pleased over losing his comfortable pillow, and dripped his way over to the stairs. Dog shook himself once, spattering Aziraphale, Crowley, the couch, and everything else with a fine mist of pond water, and padded off after his master.

“Perhaps we should get out of these wet clothes and take this into the bedroom,” Aziraphale suggested when the sound of boy and dog thumping down the stairs had ceased.

Crowley groaned. “I couldn’t possibly, angel. Not for all the Viagra in China.”

“To _sleep_ , my dear.”

“Ugh, yes all right. You get up first.”

“You’re lying on top of me.”

“Mmhm,” Crowley agreed. “ _Pudgy, cherub. So soft._ ”

"I can be soft in the bed'" Aziraphale said, and Crowley snickered. "Please, dear. I don't think my back can take another night on this couch." He sneezed. "And if I don't get out of this sodden suit, I really will catch a cold."

Crowley grumbled, but he got up. "We should take a shower anyway. Warm you up a bit and get this filth off of us."

Aziraphale scrunched up his nose. "Ducks really are very dirty creatures."

"Shit where they eat," Crowley agreed. He offered a hand to help Aziraphale up and they stumbled to the bathroom.

They held onto each other under the spray in Aziraphale's tiny shower stall.

"I don't think I've ever felt this awful in all my existence," Aziraphale lamented, wiping at his nose.

Crowley rubbed his back, holding him against his shoulder. "It'll be all right, angel."

"I think we're stuck like this."

"Not yet," Crowley said.

"If you don't get your power back, then I can't have mine. It's balance, remember. What else can we do?"

"The only thing that's left to do."

Aziraphale lifted his head to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"If Lucifer can't fix it, then it's time to ask the opposition."

"Heaven?" Aziraphale asked. "I think that Gabriel made their position quite clear, and he's never liked me to begin with."

"Then we go over his head."

"The Metatron?"

"I don't want the mouthpiece; I want the mouth."

"God?" Aziraphale asked incredulously. "God isn't going to talk to us."

"He'll have to."

"How do you figure that? Last time that I suggested it, the world was ending, and you called me stupid. What makes you think He'll see us now?"

"Because," Crowley said with a deep breath. " _I'm_ going to pray, and if _that_ doesn't get His attention, then I don't know what will."

Aziraphale raised his head and looked at Crowley searchingly. "Are you… I… Are you sure?"

Crowley bit his lip and then nodded. "If nothing else, He has a few things to answer for. I'm done with ineffability. It's time for some effing explanations."

Aziraphale looked pained. "I'm not sure that's a good idea. You know what happened last time someone started questioning Him."

"Lucifer has a short fuse. I think I'll manage to be a little more circumspect than that."

Aziraphale hummed. "Yes, I was very impressed by your cool-headedness when you were driving over people earlier."

"They _took my car_ ," Crowley growled. "They had it coming, and more."

"You were very restrained," Aziraphale assured him, smiling fondly.

"I hope its safe out on the street."

"Adam has disguised it well. I'm sure it will be fine."

Crowley shuddered. A black Morris Minor was currently parked beside Adam's Citroen, with strings of duck weed hanging from its side view mirrors. "Just insult to injury, that," Crowley muttered.

-*-

Anathema was there making breakfast when they awoke the next morning. 

"It started getting dark, so I figured that I'd best head back here," she explained over a frying pan of scramble."What do I find when I arrive, but the lot of you passed out cold. I kipped on the couch. It was a bit damp. What do you eat anyway? I had to go to the market to get food... and a pan. Want to explain what happened yesterday?"

"Hell," Crowley muttered darkly, and sunk onto one of the kitchen chairs.

"Lucifer is unable to offer any assistance," Aziraphale said. "Oh, that does smell divine."

"Sit down. Eat." 

She brought them each a plate. Aziraphale dug in with his usual enjoyment of all things gastronomic, whatever the circumstances, and Crowley picked at his while he watched.

"Is Adam still asleep?" Aziraphale asked, wiping at his mouth with a napkin.

"Yes. I spoke to him a little when I arrived, but I didn't get any answers out of him either."

"He had a row with Satan, Aziraphale practiced his magic act, and we got my car back," Crowley said. "It all went about as well as our previous experiences would cause you to expect."

"So what now?" Anathema asked.

" _Crowley_ is going to pray."

Anathema raised an eyebrow. "You're going to ask for forgiveness for helping to stop Armageddon and hope God makes you both angels again?"

"No," Crowley said. "I'm going to tell Him that this is all a load of bollocks, and demand to know what He's playing at."

"I see. And you… expect him to apologize then?"

"No," Crowley said. "I expect Him to permanently discorporate me in a fit of pique, but He'll be proving my point."

Aziraphale put a hand over Crowley's arm and gave him the _worried look_. "We could just let it go, live the rest of our mortal lives, and make the best of it."

“No,” Crowley shook his head, and he sounded angry. “No. If He really is all-knowing and all-powerful, if He really has some grand plan for it all, then that means that we were supposed to thwart Armageddon, and He allowed us to be punished for it anyway. It means that He wanted us to put a stop to it, and He wanted us to lose our powers. He. Made. You. Cry. I’m not anywhere close to being done with Hastur yet, and all he did was steal my car. No one makes my angel cry.”

Aziraphale’s face did that thing where it went all soft, and made Crowley’s chest hurt. “Oh, _Crowley_.”

Adam had come in at the beginning of Crowley’s proclamation, and had stood in the doorway silently so as not to interrupt, but now it looked like there were _feelings_ about to happen, so he cleared his throat. “Actually, I think that’s a good idea. I have a few questions of my own.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

“I can feel you staring, angel.”

Crowley was kneeling on the floor in Aziraphale’s sitting room, eyes shut, with his hands clasped before him—assuming the position. But, it was a bit difficult to concentrate with the others just standing there _watching_.

“You’re doing fine,” Aziraphale encouraged.

He cracked an eye open. “Maybe you could give me a bit of privacy.”

The others exchanged glances, and then turned their backs to him.

“That coat completely hides your arse,” Crowley complained to Aziraphale. “If we survive this encounter, I’m finding you a new tailor.”

“Perhaps if you could try to elevate your thoughts from my rear, you’d have an easier time reaching The Almighty,” Aziraphale suggested.

Crowley closed his eyes again and tried to pray.

_Hey, God._

_It’s been a while. Crowley here, but I suppose you know that. See… the thing is… we, the angel and I… Aziraphale, that is, but I guess he isn’t an angel anymore. That’s the problem really. Because, you see… he’s really the only good angel that you’ve ever had. He isn’t pompous or conceited, and he’s just so kind. Yeah, maybe he hasn’t always been great about following orders, but he only ever disobeys out of love. He sees two cold humans with a baby on the way, and he gives them his flaming sword. He sees this wonderful world about to be destroyed, and he tries to stop it. He sees a lonely demon that’s been cast away from Your Grace, and he makes a friend._

_He sheltered me from the storm, and invited me to lunch, and made these last six thousand years a little less lonely. He… cushioned my Fall. Because… he just has such a large capacity for love, and well… if that isn’t good enough, then what is? What do you want? Did you really just create this world and all the people in it so that you can destroy them in your war with Lucifer? Did you allow a demon and an angel to fall in love, just to punish us for it?_

_So, what I’m saying is… I’d like an explanation. Here I am, rebel angel, demon, serpent in the garden, on my knees._

_Ball’s in your court._

Crowley wiped his eyes and coughed, getting to his feet. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I guess that’s-”

-*-

Whatever that was, was drowned out by a sudden absence of sound, as though someone had turned the volume off for the whole world. Crowley blinked and found himself, Aziraphale, and Adam standing in a blank empty plane of white.

A stately woman in a white suit with a halo of blonde-white curls, and a care-worn face stood in the center of all of the nothing.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I left the witch behind. I didn’t think this really concerned her.” Her voice was older than her face, warm and grandmotherly, but with a clear, resonant tone—like she'd taken lessons in oration from James Earl Jones and James Mason.

“ _My God_ ,” Aziraphale said in completely un-self-conscious adoration, and he all but fell to his knees and averted his eyes.

“Hang on,” Adam said, looking at her. “You’re a woman.”

“Oh, _that’s_ the one film you haven’t seen,” Crowley scoffed.

“Which one is that?” Adam asked.

“It’s highly inaccurate,” Aziraphale said, not raising his eyes.

“You _loved_ it,” Crowley accused. “I’ve never seen you laugh so hard. And then you made me watch every film that Alan Rickman has ever been in.”

“Not really the time, Crowley,” Aziraphale hissed.

“So… you _are_ God then?” Adam asked.

“I am,” God said.

“But,” Adam’s face crinkled into a confused frown, and he turned to Crowley. “You say He. You always say He. Lucifer says He.” He turned back to God. “You’re a woman?”

God shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Crowley waved a hand in the air. “It’s a default pronoun. God isn’t a man, or a woman, or a burning bush, or _whatever_.”

“Better to say that I am all of those things,” God suggested. “And you must be Adam. It’s very good to finally meet you face to face.”

“Yeah,” Adam said. “So you’re like… my grandmother then?”

God chuckled. “I suppose that you could say that.”

Adam sighed. “Mind telling me what you’re about then— taking away Aziraphale’s power, and all the rest of it?”

God looked to where Aziraphale was kneeling. “You may rise, Angel of the Eastern Gate,” She said.

Aziraphale stood, though he still kept his eyes averted. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“Thank you,” Crowley said incredulously. “ _Thank you?_ After everything, you’re just a big gooey puddle in the face of God, aren’t you?”

“Please, show a little respect, Crowley.”

Crowley snorted, turning away from Aziraphale to meet God’s eyes. “You answered my prayer, so you know what I want. Does our presence here mean that you’re actually going to give us some answers? Are you going to make Aziraphale an angel again?”

“No,” She said, “I am not. As to answers, the big picture is so much larger than any of you can comprehend, that I could never hope to explain.”

“Try us,” Adam said.

She smiled at him. “Adam, I _am_ sorry. I’m sorry for what you are. I’m also amazed by it. You were created to bring about the end of the world, and you began to go about it in the most amazing ways, but you ultimately went against your nature and changed your mind. That astounds me. Crowley is correct in his assumption that Armageddon wasn’t ever something that I wanted. So, for that I am grateful. It isn’t the war, but the conflict that is important. There has to be balance. There cannot be a Heaven without Hell. There cannot be light without darkness. There cannot be a Christ without an Antichrist.”

“What do you mean?” Adam asked.

“Free will exists because humans have choices, without choices there cannot be free will. Unless there is a good side, and a bad side, there are no choices. There needs to be balance. I could not send my son to Earth, unless Lucifer also sent his son to Earth. So, if there is a Christ, then there must also be an Antichrist. If there is a creation of Earth, then there must also be a destruction.”

“But, I stopped it,” Adam said, clearly not understanding.

“You did.” God smiled at him. “With your free will.”

“I thought that only humans have free will,” Adam said.

“Beings with the knowledge of good and evil have free will,” God said, “Which is why I cannot make Aziraphale into an angel again.”

“I enjoy a good nosh more than the next angel, I admit,” Aziraphale said, “and I’ve allowed Crowley to tempt me a time or two, but I never ate any forbidden fruit.”

 She smiled at Aziraphale kindly. “Angels know only good. They have no free will. You haven’t truly been an angel for a very long time now. Nor, I think,” she smirked a bit at Crowley, “have you been a demon. You’ve both been sharing the workload for quite some time now, if I’m not mistaken. And, I’m _never_ mistaken. A temptation here, a miracle there, what’s the difference?”

“I knew The Arrangement was a bad idea,” Aziraphale hissed at Crowley

“So, what?” Adam demanded. “That’s it then? They’re too balanced, too human, to be a demon and an angel anymore?”

“Exactly,” God said.

Aziraphale and Crowley shared a long breath as understanding set in. It was the very nature of their association that had condemned them to this fate. Yet, neither one of them would have sacrificed it for all of eternity, and they both understood that too.

“Well, where’s the fun in that?” Adam demanded.

“Excuse me?” God asked.

“What’s the point of making a whole world, if you’re going to take all of the magic out of it?”

“I haven’t-”

“You have a demon and an angel who are supposed to be diametrically opposed, except instead of being sworn enemies, they bicker like an old married couple, and eat out at restaurants together, and see every play that Shakespeare ever wrote over, and over, and _over_ again. Don’t you see how amazing that is? Aziraphale can do real magic, or could before you took it away, but he does all these really lame coin tricks, and messes them up 90% of the time. Crowley could teleport anywhere that he wanted to, but instead he drives this ancient old car at improbable speeds, and still gets stuck in traffic. Crowley yells at his houseplants. Aziraphale has every cookbook ever written, but doesn’t own a frying pan. They’re completely ridiculous.”

“I’m not sure that I see your point,” God said, frowning.

“The world needs a little bit of ridiculous,” Adam said, looking at God the same way that people of his generation look at people, like Aziraphale, who don’t understand the internet. “A little bit of ridiculous is the whole point, and if you don’t give them back their power, then they’re going to grow old and die, and that would be a real shame, because the world is a lot more fun, a little more magical, with them in it.”

God blinked a few times and let out a long breath. “Perhaps you’re right. They have been there since the beginning after all, and it would be balanced if they were there at the end.” She hummed as she pondered it, and they all held their breath.

“You aren’t an angel and a demon anymore,” She said finally. “But, perhaps that’s okay. You’ve saved the world once before. Perhaps that could be your purpose. Not servants of Heaven or Hell, but servants of Earth. Not completely good or completely evil, but completely neutral.”

“Gods of Chaos?” Adam suggested with a grin.

“ _Careful_ ,” God warned. “I said servants, not Gods. That’s where your father got into trouble.”

“He isn’t my father.”

She smiled sadly at him. “He is. It isn’t easy sending a son out into the world. Lucifer’s greatest downfall has always been that he loves only himself, but you are a part of him, and so he loves you. You’ll understand in time.”

“So, Crowley and Aziraphale get to be chaotic neutrals, but I’m still going to Hell,” Adam summed it up, not at all surprised.

“Hell could be what you make of it,” God suggested.

“I suppose that’s all part of your ineffable plan as well, because that makes perfect sense. I have free will, which means that I’m both good and evil, but I still have to go to Hell where you expect me to… do good? Doesn’t that throw off your whole perfect balance thing?”

“If you could understand, it wouldn’t be ineffable,” God said.

Adam rolled his eyes.

God turned back to Crowley and Aziraphale. “It’s time I sent you back. Apparently, the world needs you. She kissed each of them on the cheek.

-*-

They were back in Aziraphale’s flat.

“I don’t think it’s going to work,” Anathema said. “Maybe you should try, Adam. Prayers from the Antichrist ought to get his attention just as well.”

“It’s done,” Adam said.

“What do you mean? I-?”

There was a flick and a rustle of sound as two sets of wings unfolded in the somewhat cramped space of a second-story flat. Feathers alternating black and white glistened with some interior light and darkness.

Crowley and Aziraphale both preened for a moment, examining the changes.

Aziraphale let out a contented sigh. “That’s much better. I feel like myself again.”

“You look like a zebra,” Crowley said.

“So do you.”

“I like it,” Adam said. “I think the stripes suit you.”

There was another rustle of feathers and they both put their wings away—no sign that they had ever been there at all.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to explain what really happened this time either?” Anathema asked.

“Crowley and Aziraphale both have their powers back,” Adam said. “I’m still going to Hell.”

“Right, glad it’s all sorted out, then. Without me,” Anathema said tartly. “I’m going home. The children probably have Newton tied up and are attempting some kind of ritual sacrifice by now.”

“Want a lift back to Tadfield?” Adam asked.

“Don’t you need to be back at university?”

“It’s already Friday. I might as well go home for the weekend now. Maybe it’s a good thing that I _am_ still the Antichrist. I might need to Jedi mind trick my professors next week.”

“Adam?” Aziraphale said, before they could head for the door.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Adam shrugged. “No problem. You guys helped clean up my mess last time. _Apparently_ it’s all about balance.” He rolled his eyes.

And then, suddenly they were all gone, and Crowley and Aziraphale were alone again.

“Agents of Earth,” Aziraphale said in wonder.

“ _Our_ side,” Crowley added.

 

 


	14. Epilogue

In the beginning, there had been a garden. There had been a serpent in the garden, and an angel guarding the Eastern Gate. There had been an apple, and a sword. There had been a rainstorm.

Now, there is a park. There is a speed demon and a bookshop owner. There is a loaf of bread, and there are some ducks.

“So, what do you think we’re supposed to do now?” Aziraphale asked.

“What we’ve been doing, I suppose,” Crowley said.

“We don’t really _do_ anything.”

“I think we’re just supposed to _be_. Well, that, and look after things here. Isn’t that what you said you wanted? The world at our wingtips, the heavens above, and hell under our boot heels?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Yes, it is. And, what about you?”

“I’ve got my angel and my car. What more could a former-demon ask for?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything, cherub.”

“Are you feeding the ducks or just trying to hit them with the biggest piece of bread that you think you can get away with, without me noticing?”

“The Bentley _still_ smells of duck feces.”

“It does not,” Aziraphale dismissed. “It’s all in your imagination.”

Crowley tossed the half loaf of stale bread that remained at a particularly disagreeable duck. “It does.” He stood and offered his hand to his angel. “The Ritz?”

“No reason to break tradition now.”

They walked hand-in-hand towards where Crowley had parked The Bentley.

Crowley and Aziraphale, _for the world_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments of all shapes, sizes, and varieties are very much appreciated. I love to hear from you.
> 
> If you liked this, there is more in this series, and I also have a few other Good Omens fics. You can find them from my profile page.
> 
> Blanket permission is granted for all translation, podfic, and fanart- as always. So, if that's something you're interested in, feel free. My playground is your playground.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading.


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